See what unfolds in the next chapter...

Three years after the night at Cherry Hills.

It was a crisp, golden autumn afternoon in Denver. The leaves on the aspen trees had turned brilliant shades of amber, yellow, and deep orange, shimmering under the bright sun.

I stepped out of a sleek black electric sedan in front of my Capitol Hill penthouse—the same home I had saved every penny to buy, the same home they had tried to demand as a right.

The building looked immaculate. The private security detail I had hired years ago was gone, replaced by a warm, welcoming concierge team. I didn't need guards or iron gates anymore. True security, I had learned, wasn't built on fear; it was built on absolute self-reliance and peace of mind.

I walked up the stone steps of the lobby, holding a bouquet of fresh white lilies I had picked up from the local market.

As I approached the glass entrance doors, a man sitting on a wooden public bench across the street slowly stood up.

He wore a plain, faded denim jacket, dark trousers, and scuffed work boots. He looked thinner, older, his hair unkempt, his shoulders slouched in a permanent posture of defeat.

It was Diego.

He stood near the edge of the curb, looking across the four lanes of traffic at me. He didn't cross the street. He didn't shout. He knew that taking a single step toward my building would trigger an immediate GPS alert on his ankle monitor and send him straight back to a state prison cell.

He simply stood there, staring at me with eyes full of overwhelming sorrow, heartbreak, and profound regret.

He saw me wearing my tailored coat, holding fresh flowers, stepping into the luxury building he had once tried to claim as his own. He saw the woman he had dismissed, insulted, and struck—now standing as one of the most powerful, respected figures in the city.

I paused near the glass door.

I looked across the street, meeting his gaze through the clear afternoon light.

I didn't glare at him. I didn't smile in triumph. I didn't show anger.