Monica didn't sleep.
She sat at the dining table as dawn crept in, light touching the edges of a house that no longer felt like hers. Every sound—pipes, floorboards, the distant hum of the city—felt like judgment.
She had spent years moving pieces without anyone seeing her hands.
Now everyone was watching.
Her lawyer's office smelled like polish and restraint.
"This is bad," he said plainly. "The anonymous source is solid. The pressure narrative holds. And your daughter—"
"She's confused," Monica cut in. "She was influenced."
The lawyer shook his head. "She was precise. That's worse."
Monica leaned forward. "Then we change the story."
He frowned. "Excuse me?"
"We say Duncan orchestrated it," Monica said calmly. "He had motive. Control. Access. He pushed the inheritance narrative. I only followed."
The lawyer went still.
"That would be… risky."
Monica's eyes hardened. "So is prison."
At the house, Duncan packed a small bag.
Not to run.
To prepare.
Amanda watched from the doorway, arms folded. "You knew this would come."
"Yes," Duncan replied. "I just hoped it wouldn't come like this."
"Monica won't stop," Amanda said.
Duncan nodded. "Neither will the truth."
Cedric arrived at the courthouse with Amanda beside him, cameras already gathering like vultures.
He felt it in his chest—not fear.
Resolve sharpened by pain.
Inside, the air shifted as Monica entered with her lawyer. Perfect posture. Perfect hair.
Perfect mask.
She didn't look at Cedric.
Not once.
The meeting was brief.
Explosive.
"We're alleging coercion," Monica's lawyer announced. "My client acted under psychological manipulation by her husband."
The room went silent.
Duncan stared at Monica across the table.
"So that's your move," he said softly.
Monica met his gaze. "You should've destroyed the folder."
Duncan nodded once. "I almost did."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "Before we proceed, there's something you should see."
A screen flickered on.
Audio played.
Monica's voice—unmistakable.
"Fear makes people weak. I won't have weakness ruin what I fixed."
Monica's face drained of color.
The lawyer continued. "Recorded. Time-stamped. Provided by a family member."
Monica turned slowly.
Her eyes locked on Iris.
"You," she whispered.
Iris didn't flinch. "You said fear made people weak. You were wrong."
Naomi broke down in tears.
"I didn't want to lie," she cried. "She told me Cedric would destroy us. She said I was saving my sisters."
Ella covered her mouth, shaking.
The walls closed in.
Cedric stood.
"Enough."
Every head turned.
"I don't want her destroyed," he said calmly. "I want the truth acknowledged. Publicly. Fully."
Monica laughed, brittle. "You think mercy makes you strong?"
Cedric looked at her. "No. Surviving you did."
Silence followed.
Not pity.
Judgment.
Outside, Monica was taken aside—not in cuffs.
Yet.
But the space around her had changed.
Isolation clung to her like a sentence waiting to be read.
Duncan approached her once.
"This didn't have to end like this," he said.
Monica didn't answer.
She had already lost the language that protected her.
That night, Iris sat with Amanda on the porch.
"I didn't plan to record her," Iris admitted. "I just… stopped deleting things."
Amanda smiled sadly. "Sometimes survival looks like patience."
Monica sat alone in the dark, phone silent, house empty.
Her last card lay face-up on the table.
And everyone could see it was worthless.