The next day, Gabriel’s penthouse was quiet.

The rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows, obscuring the Chicago skyline in a gray mist.

I packed my single suitcase on the bed.

Inside, I placed my mother’s letters, tied together with a faded blue ribbon.

Beside them went my savings passbook—money I had earned myself, untouched by the foundation’s corruption.

Gabriel walked into the room, holding two printed boarding passes.

“The flight to Seattle leaves at eight tomorrow morning,” he said.

“I’m ready,” I said, looking at the tickets.

“A new start,” he said, offering a small, rare smile. “No courtrooms. No legacy.”

“Just us,” I said.

I zipped the suitcase shut, the sound signaling the end of my life in this city.

But as I reached for my coat, Gabriel’s phone on the nightstand began to vibrate.

He picked it up, his smile fading as he read the screen.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s from the warden’s office at the metropolitan correctional center,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping.

He answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear.