Caden laughed once — too high, too unhinged — when his offshore accounts were shown on screen including his deed.
He watched the footage like it was a mildly interesting comrcial.
Empty.
Emotionless.
Rotten.
I wanted to kill him right there.
Judge Marlowe exhaled like he aged ten years in a minute.
"The court recognizes the gravity of these acts," he said. "We will proceed with witness testimonies."
Rivers nodded.
"Prosecution calls Dr. Reina Kassel."
****
Kassel walked with steady precision.
Her presence alone brought a hush — clinical, unshakable, lethal in truth.
She raised her hand, was sworn in, and sat.
"Dr. Kassel," Rivers began, "state your qualifications."
"Neurologist. Trauma specialist. Head of St. Lambert’s VIP unit. Fifteen years of clinical experience."
"And your involvent with the victims?"
"I treated Mrs. Isabella Walton and Mrs. Elise Walton," she said. "Both suffered severe physical trauma. Mrs. Isabella Walton also experienced significant neurological damage."
Caden rolled his shoulders, restless.
Kassel continued.
"In my professional opinion, the psychological and physical assault perford on Mrs. Walton directly contributed to the miscarriage of her two-month pregnancy."
The courtroom shattered.
Gasps.
Caden’s expression twitched, almost imperceptibly.
My father bowed his head.
Judge Marlowe’s gavel thundered.
"ORDER!"
Kassel’s voice was steady.
"The child — unknown to Mr. Walton at the ti — was lost because of blunt force trauma combined with stress-induced shock."
My vision swam.
Not with weakness—
with murder.
Caron placed a hand on my arm. Pressure: steady.
Rivers stepped forward.
"And in your professional opinion —"
"Yes," Kassel said bitterly, jaw tightening, "the defendants are directly and dically responsible."
****
The judge’s voice cut through the courtroom like a blade:
"Clara Langford, for the preditated murder of Sophia Walton... for the attempted murder of Isabella Walton... for conspiracy, obstruction, psychological warfare and aggravated assault... you are hereby sentenced to death by electrocution."
The words hit Clara like a physical blow. Her already pale face drained to an ashen white. Her jaw went slack, the wild, cornered look in her eyes morphing into pure, unadulterated terror.
Her scream ricocheted off the walls.
Not just guilt.
Or fear.
Entitlent breaking.
Her mother wasn’t there.
Her father wasn’t there.
Not a single Langford showed up to claim her.
For the first ti in her life, Clara Langford had no audience.
And then she broke.
It was not a slow fracture. She rose from her seat like a marionette cut loose, dragged herself across the barrier and tore toward , hands clawing for purchase that the court would not allow. "Adri—" she scread, voice shredding into a thousand apologies and crazed pleas, "Adri — please — listen — I didn’t an to — please — you have to listen to — i can explain — i can fix everything — don’t let them kill — don’t let them — Adrien!!!"
Bailiffs grabbed her.
She fought like a wild animal.
"I LOVE YOU! I DID EVERYTHING FOR YOU — YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND — I WAS THE ONE WHO ALWAYS — ALWAYS — STOOD BY YOU — NOT ANY— NOT ANY—"
"Remove her," Judge Marlowe snapped.
As they dragged her away, she clawed toward , fingers reaching for thin air.
"ADRIEN! LOOK AT —LOOK AT —LOOK AT M—"
The courtroom doors slamd after her.
The judge continued.
"Caden Walton — born Caden Pierce..."
He stiffened.
"...DNA evidence confirms you are not biologically related to the Walton family. Your identity under that na is revoked from all civil and federal records."
The judge paused, letting the weight of his declaration settle. Caden’s face, which had been a mask of indifferent amusent, contorted. The carefully crafted facade crumbled, revealing a flicker of panic, raw and undisguised.
"For multiple counts of murder, conspiracy, hostage terrorism, illegal warfare, aggravated assault, attempted homicide and attempting to destabilize a global economic power... you are hereby sentenced to death by..."
I watched the judge’s mouth form the words.
But I already knew the sentence ant nothing.
He’d never reach that execution room.
Not alive.
Father. No. Henry Walton didn’t look at as the judge listed his cris—abuse of power, obstruction of justice, embezzlent, fraud, bribery, conspiracy to kill his own blood. His sentence:
"Life imprisonnt without parole."
Life.
A rcy he didn’t deserve—but one that served better.
Dead n can’t confess to the remaining things I need uncovered.
The bang of the gavel felt final enough to echo inside my ribs.
Caras exploded into noise. Reporters shot to their feet shouting questions like rabid animals.
"Mr. Walton—"
"Mr. Walton—did you know?"
"Is it true your wife was—"
"Is Isabella okay?"
"why is your wife not here?"
My jaw tightened.
Isabella.
She was safe at her dad’s, unaware, recovering, fragile-boned mory held together by Kassel’s warnings.
She didn’t need this.
She couldn’t see this.
Not the details.
Not the headlines.
Not the histories soaked in blood.
I rose from my seat.
Gray was already near the exit, in place exactly where I expected him—sharp suit, sharper gaze, phone in hand.
When the reporters surged toward , I gave him a single nod.
Barely a tilt of my chin.
He understood.
Always did.
In seconds, n stepped in front of the mob, and gray’s voice projected with a clean, dangerous authority that cut through the chaos:
"Mr. Walton will not be taking questions today. All dia regarding this case must be cleared through our legal office. No explicit details. No recordings from inside. No statents regarding Mrs. Walton — per dical privacy laws."
The crowd protested imdiately.
Gray didn’t flinch.
Security closed in, forming a barrier around . Caras were gently—but firmly—lowered. The doors behind opened as Gray continued to drown the noise with professional, lethal calm.
I walked through the exit without looking back.
And in the quiet of the corridor, far from the caras and the shouts, the truth settled in my bones:
This was never about justice.
This was about legitimacy.
About putting the system on record, so when Clara and Caden disappeared from the prison pipeline...no one would question it.
No one would connect it to .
The law served as my alibi.
My real sentence for them... hadn’t begun yet.
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