My mother-in-law dragged me to court, accusing me of pretending to be pregnant to snatch the inheritance. Then, right there in the courtroom, she lunged forward and kicked my stomach. “See? It’s all fake!” Gasps erupted. What she didn’t realize… the man behind the judge’s bench was my father. And in that instant, her case didn’t just fall apart. Her life did haj.

Agatha Sterling was no longer a person; she was a cautionary tale. She was currently serving a life sentence—the assault charge had been the least of her worries once the “murder by slow poisoning” evidence was presented to a grand jury. She would die in a cage, surrounded by the silence she had tried to impose on me.

My father walked out onto the balcony, his robes replaced by a comfortable cashmere sweater. He picked up the baby, his face softening in a way I hadn’t seen since I was a child.

“He’s already trying to grab my glasses,” Dad chuckled. “He’s going to be a handful.”

“He’s a Thorne,” I said, leaning my head on my father’s shoulder. “He’s supposed to be a handful.”

I looked at the sunrise. I had started this journey as a widow hiding in the shadows, afraid that my power would overshadow my love. I had learned that love without power is vulnerable, and power without love is a tyranny.