*”I think you should ask your real blood for help, Helen.”*
I didn’t wait for a response. I disconnected the line and blocked her number permanently.
**With the parasitic elements of my past finally excised and utterly destroyed, I stood in the foyer of my newly secured, unencumbered home, looking at my son Ethan, realizing that for the first time in thirteen years, I didn’t have to pretend to smile, yet a lingering question remained about what a life without war would actually look like
The Sound of Victory
Two years have passed since the alarms faded into silence in that sterile ICU room.
Time has a funny way of cleansing the palate. The chaos of the federal investigations, the scandalous headlines, and the frantic legal maneuverings have all settled into the quiet dust of history.
Ethan graduated last week from his master’s program at architecture school, top of his class. His tuition, his housing, and his future were paid in full from an ironclad, offshore trust I had legally shielded and separated from Victor’s tainted empire years before he even received his cancer diagnosis. Ethan knows the truth of what his father did, and he knows the lengths to which I went to protect him. Our bond, forged in the fires of my silent war, is unbreakable.
