Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Blackthorn ManorBlackthorn Manor had been put up for federal auction three months after the raid.
No one bought it immediately. Real estate brokers whispered that the estate was cursed—that the ghost of a broken marriage still haunted the polished black stone floors of the grand hall.
Late one autumn evening, long after the financial markets had closed and the city had settled into a restless hum, a lone black town car pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the estate.
The car stopped in front of the grand entrance.
I stepped out alone, wearing a long charcoal trench coat, walking up the marble steps where I had once knelt in the dirt, bleeding and silent.
The federal seals had been removed from the heavy oak doors, but the house remained completely empty inside. No furniture. No art. No chandeliers reflecting crystal light. Just bare walls, echoing footsteps, and the cold, damp scent of abandonment.
I walked through the foyer, stopping precisely where the black stone floor had fractured under the impact of the sapphire pendant.
I knelt down.
My back didn't hurt anymore. The physical scars had faded into pale, silver lines beneath my clothes—permanent reminders of a pain that could no longer touch me.
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object.
I placed it right in the center of the fractured stone.
It wasn't a jewel. It wasn't a weapon.
It was the original braided leather riding whip Nathan had used on that night, recovered from the federal evidence locker before incineration, stripped of its brass fittings and tied into a permanent, unbreakable knot.
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Let the future owners of this house find it, I thought. Let them wonder what kind of monster used to live here, and what kind of woman finally burned his empire to ash.
I stood back up, brushing my hands clean, and turned toward the door without looking back once.
