I thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Forgiveness isn’t the goal for me.”
Paige looked at me. “Then what is?”
I watched a wave curl and collapse, the water smoothing itself out again.
“Freedom,” I said. “Freedom from what she did. Freedom from letting it define me.”
Paige nodded slowly, as if she was trying to learn that, too.
The next year, my father’s health improved. Not because life became easy, but because he wasn’t living under constant emotional tension. He started walking along the Battery in the mornings. He joined a support group for people recovering from financial exploitation.
He became someone I could respect, not just someone I wanted to be loved by.
And as for Victoria—her appeals failed.
She served her sentence.
The world moved on.
But I didn’t.
I moved forward.
Part 9
In 2030, the beach house didn’t feel like a trophy anymore.
It felt like a heartbeat.
The porch boards were a little weathered from salt air. The living room held signs of a life lived—books stacked on the coffee table, a throw blanket tossed over the sofa, framed photos that weren’t curated for holiday cards but chosen because they made me smile.
My firm had expanded into two offices, one in Charleston and one in Atlanta. I traveled more than I wanted sometimes, but I traveled on my terms. I hired people who reminded me of the younger me—smart, underestimated, hungry for dignity—and I made sure they were seen.
The Elaine Beckett Coastal Hope Fund had grown, too. We’d partnered with research centers, funded screenings, helped women get treatment earlier than they otherwise could have. We’d saved lives. That word still felt too big to hold, but it was true.
My father came to the beach house every Sunday for dinner now.
He’d bring wine and insist he was learning to cook, though his definition of cooking mostly involved grilling with great enthusiasm. We’d sit on the porch after eating and talk about ordinary things—books, the weather, the state of his tomatoes.
Sometimes, if the night was quiet enough, he’d talk about my mother.
Not in guilt. In remembrance.
Paige came occasionally, too.
Our relationship wasn’t the kind you see in movies where everyone becomes best friends after hardship. It was slower. More honest. Built on accountability instead of denial.