Chapter 8 - Rising from the Cinders
Six months later, the estate outside Denver had been completely rebuilt, transforming from a site of betrayal and tragedy into the headquarters of the Bennett Foundation for Financial Transparency and Public Safety Integrity.
I stood on the wide wooden veranda, looking out over the manicured white rose gardens that had been replanted along the path where the old bridal suite once stood. The morning sun was warm, bright, and completely unclouded.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
An alert from the federal penitentiary tracking system: Inmate Preston Hale transferred to maximum security facility, solitary unit.
An alert from the financial restitution fund: First wave of municipal pension recovery funds successfully redistributed to wrongfully audited families.
I swiped the notifications away, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
My hands were still marked by faint, silvery burn scars along my wrists—permanent reminders of the night I died and the day I learned how to survive. But as I looked down at my reflection in the glass door of the veranda, I didn't see a victim anymore.
I saw a survivor. I saw a conqueror.
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And as the spring breeze rustled through the white roses, carrying the sweet scent of a new beginning across the grounds, I took a deep, clear, unobstructed breath of fresh air.
Let them burn down the world. I was already fireproof.
