Chapter 9 - The ReckoningThe chaotic scramble in the hallway ended as quickly as it began.
Within seconds, Owen Holloway was pinned to the floor with a pair of steel handcuffs locked securely around his wrists, his face pressed against the linoleum he had tried to control for nearly a decade. Dr. Thorne was slumped against the wall opposite him, holding a bloodied handkerchief to his split lip while two officers stood over him, waiting for instructions.
I stood in the doorway of the supply closet, my hand tightly interlocked with Mara’s. Her fingers were ice-cold, but her grip was fierce—an anchor in a storm that was finally, mercifully clearing.
The lieutenant stepped over Owen’s thrashing form and walked straight toward us. He looked at my hospital-issue pants, the bruises blooming across my face, and the desperate exhaustion in our eyes.
“Mr. Holloway?” the officer asked.
“That’s me,” I said.
“We received an anonymous tip with a complete forensic audit of the Holloway estate, the falsified death records from nine years ago, and the wire transfers linking Dr. Thorne to an offshore account in Zurich.” The lieutenant glanced down at Owen, who was snarling curses from the floor. “Looks like your brother’s little empire just collapsed.”
“It’s about time,” I breathed.
As officers swarmed the hallway, escorting Owen toward the elevators and placing Thorne under formal arrest, the heavy burden I had carried for nine years seemed to lift off my shoulders, piece by agonizing piece.
Mara leaned her head against my shoulder, wincing slightly from her own exhaustion.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, looking down at her.
“I am now,” she whispered back, a small, genuine smile touching the corners of her lips for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed.
“So,” I said, a faint smirk breaking through my pain. “Technically speaking... we’re still married.”
Mara looked up at me, her eyes sparkling with a mix of disbelief and affection.
“On paper,” she echoed my words from days ago.
“No,” I corrected, wrapping my good arm around her waist and pulling her close, ignoring the protest of my ribs. “Not just on paper anymore. For real this time. If you’ll still have me.”
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She laughed—a real, bright sound that chased away the last of the hospital's sterile shadows.
“You’re stuck with me, Grant. You signed the paperwork nine years ago.”
