Eight long months of waiting, only to be met with rejection.

The court's ruling spoke of twenty years of marriage being "not easily dissolved," urging us to "weather life's storms together."

As the woman finished recounting her story, her composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the exhaustion etched into her features.

The onlookers, moved by her despair, murmured words of comfort.

"Next time he lays a hand on you, call the police. Get it on record. That’s the only way the court will listen."

"Exactly. If the first trial fails, file for a second one. Determination wins in the end."

The woman wiped her face with trembling hands.

"The second trial can’t be filed for another six months. I want to report him, to make him face consequences. But he threatens our child’s future—what if a criminal record ruins his chances at a stable career? In this economy, a secure job is everything." Her voice cracked. "I endured for years, for my child. But this time… he broke my ribs. I can’t do it anymore. I offered him everything—the house, the savings—just to leave with my child, no alimony. Only then did he agree. And still, it took two months just to schedule the cooling-off period… If I wait any longer, the second trial will begin."

A heavy silence settled over the group.

Amy Sinclair listened quietly, a familiar ache tightening in her chest. She understood this woman’s pain all too well.

Once, she too had stayed—bound by duty, by fear, by the weight of what leaving would cost. She had wanted to give Liam the stability of a family, the privilege of the Blackwood name, its unmatched resources.

Those chains had kept her trapped.

But what if…

What if Alexander hadn’t fallen so deeply for Victoria?

Would she still be enduring that marriage?

She didn’t know.

The breeze outside city hall brushed against her face, lifting the loose strands of hair at her temples. The suffocating tension in her chest eased slightly.

But life didn’t offer what-ifs.

Now, she was free.

"Amy! Did you finally get the divorce?"

Nathan Prescott appeared out of nowhere, his expression a mix of poorly concealed excitement and curiosity.

Alexander Blackwood’s eyes narrowed at Nathan’s tone. "Why are you here?"

"I came to—" Congratulate you on your freedom.

Nathan caught himself, clearing his throat. "I came for the letter of understanding. And the antidote."

Alexander turned to Amy. "The letter?"

Without hesitation, she handed it over.

Alexander skimmed the document, then looked up. "And Nathan’s antidote? Victoria’s medicine?"

Nathan’s face, though no longer bandaged, was a patchwork of dark bruises and half-healed wounds. Some scars had taken on a sickly, discolored hue, twisting his features into something unsettling.

Doctors had been useless. Herbalists had shrugged. Even the most renowned specialists couldn’t neutralize the toxins.

Now, he wore a mask in public.

Once, he’d forgotten—and caused such panic that the police were called, accusing him of some grotesque prank.

Humiliating.

Infuriating.

And entirely deserved.