The first victim came to my door on a Tuesday morning.
I was feeding Sofia when the doorbell rang. Eleanor answered it, and I heard raised voices from the foyer. When I came downstairs, a woman in her fifties was standing in the entrance, her face twisted with rage.
"Where is he?" she demanded when she saw me. "Where's the man who destroyed my family?"
"He's not here," I said carefully, shifting Sofia in my arms. "Can I help you?"
"Help me?" The woman laughed bitterly. "Your husband put my son in prison for a crime he didn't commit. My boy has spent five years behind bars—five years—because of fabricated evidence. And you want to know if you can help me?"
My blood ran cold. "What's your son's name?"
"Marcus Chen," she said, her voice breaking. "He was twenty-three years old when he was convicted of embezzlement. He's been in federal prison ever since. He's missed his sister's wedding, his father's funeral, five years of his life—all because your husband decided he was a convenient scapegoat for covering up someone else's crimes."
I felt sick. "Mrs. Chen, I'm so sorry. I didn't know—"
"You didn't know?" she interrupted, her voice rising. "You're married to him! You live in this mansion built on blood money and destroyed lives, and you didn't know?"
"I'm sorry," I said again, because what else could I say? She was right.
"Sorry doesn't give me back my son," Mrs. Chen said, tears streaming down her face. "Sorry doesn't undo what you people have done to my family. You're monsters. Both of you."
Then she turned and left, leaving me standing in the foyer, shaking.
She was the first. But she wouldn't be the last.
---
Over the next week, they kept coming.
The father of a man serving fifteen years for fraud that Damien had orchestrated. The sister of a woman who'd lost her business after Damien planted evidence of tax evasion. The fiancée of a man who'd attempted suicide in prison after being wrongfully convicted.
Each story was worse than the last. Each face was haunted by the pain Damien—and by extension, I—had caused.
Agent Chen called me to her office on Friday.
"Mrs. Blackwood, we need to discuss the victims," she said, gesturing for me to sit. "We've identified at least six cases where innocent people were convicted based on fabricated or tampered evidence your husband provided. But the real number is likely much higher."
"How high?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"We're estimating between fifteen and twenty cases," Chen said grimly. "And that's just the criminal cases. The number of people whose lives were destroyed through other means—business sabotage, reputation destruction, financial ruin—could be in the hundreds."
Hundreds. Hundreds of people whose lives Damien had destroyed for his revenge.
"What happens to them now?" I asked.
"We're working with the courts to review each case individually," Chen explained. "Some will be overturned immediately. Others will require new trials. But the process could take years, and in the meantime, innocent people remain in prison."
"What about compensation?" I asked. "Can't we—"
"The Blackwood estate will be seized to pay restitution," Chen interrupted. "But even liquidating everything your husband owns won't be enough to compensate all the victims. Some of these people have lost decades of their lives. No amount of money can truly make them whole."
I thought about the mansion, the luxury cars, the expensive clothes hanging in my closet. All of it built on the suffering of innocent people.
"Take it all," I said suddenly. "The mansion, the businesses, everything. Use it to compensate the victims. I don't want any of it."
Chen looked at me carefully. "Mrs. Blackwood, you should speak with your lawyer before making any decisions—"
"I don't care," I said. "I have Sofia to think about. I can't raise her in a house built on innocent people's suffering. I won't."
---
That evening, a man I didn't recognize appeared at the mansion gates.
Security called me before letting him in. "Ma'am, there's a Marcus Hart here to see you. Says he's your uncle."
My blood froze. Marcus Hart. My father's younger brother. I'd barely seen him growing up—he'd moved overseas when I was a child and had minimal contact with the family.
"Let him in," I said, curious despite my trepidation.
Marcus Hart was nothing like my father. Where Richard was imposing and stern, Marcus was charming and smooth. He walked into my home wearing an expensive Italian suit, his smile perfect, his movements calculated.
"Sophia," he said warmly, as if we were old friends. "It's been too long."
"Uncle Marcus," I said carefully. "I didn't know you were back in the country."
"I came as soon as I heard about the family troubles," he said, sitting down uninvited. "Your father in prison, your mother facing charges, poor Victoria locked up. And now your husband's scandal. The Hart family has fallen on hard times."
"We brought it on ourselves," I said bluntly.
"Did you?" Marcus asked, his eyes sharp despite his easy smile. "Or were you all victims of Damien Blackwood's obsession?"
I bristled. "Damien did terrible things. But my father committed crimes. So did Victoria. They're not innocent victims."
"Aren't they?" Marcus leaned forward. "Think about it, Sophia. Damien Blackwood spent years orchestrating your family's downfall. He fabricated evidence, manipulated the legal system, destroyed reputations. How much of what your father was convicted of was real, and how much was Blackwood's revenge?"
"The evidence against my father was real," I said, though doubt crept into my voice. "Agent Chen said—"
"Agent Chen is part of the system," Marcus interrupted smoothly. "The same system that convicted your father based on Blackwood's fabrications. Can you really trust them to tell you the truth?"
"What do you want, Uncle Marcus?" I asked, tired of his games.
His smile turned sharp. "I want to help you, Sophia. I want to help our family. I've built my own empire overseas—completely legitimate, I assure you. I have resources, connections, lawyers. I can help your father get a fair appeal. Help your mother. Even help Victoria, if she deserves it."
"In exchange for what?" I asked.
"Your cooperation," he said simply. "Your testimony. You were married to Damien Blackwood. You lived in his house, knew his secrets. Help us prove that he orchestrated a conspiracy to destroy the Hart family, and we can potentially overturn all the convictions."
"Including my father's?" I asked.
"Including everyone's," Marcus confirmed. "Your father, your mother, Victoria—all of them could potentially walk free if we can prove their convictions were based on Blackwood's fabrications."
It was tempting. So tempting. But something about Marcus made my skin crawl.
"I need to think about it," I said finally.
"Of course," Marcus said, standing. "But don't think too long. Your father's appeal hearing is in three weeks. After that, it may be too late."
He handed me his business card—crisp, expensive, with a London address. "Call me when you're ready to do the right thing for your family, Sophia."
After he left, I sat in the silent mansion, holding Sofia and trying to figure out what the right thing even was anymore.
---
That night, I visited Damien.
He was being held in a federal detention center pending his trial, and I'd been granted permission for a brief visit. When they brought him out, he looked haggard—his usual immaculate appearance replaced by prison-issued clothing and exhaustion.
"You shouldn't be here," he said immediately. "You should stay as far away from me as possible."
"My uncle came to see me," I said without preamble. "Marcus Hart. My father's brother."
Damien's expression darkened immediately. "What did he want?"
"He wants me to testify that you orchestrated a conspiracy against my family. He says he can get all their convictions overturned if I cooperate."
"Don't," Damien said immediately, his voice harsh. "Don't trust Marcus Hart. Don't even talk to him."
"Why not?" I challenged. "You destroyed my family. Maybe they deserve to have their convictions overturned."
"Not all of them," Damien said. "Your father committed real crimes, Sophia. So did Victoria. Yes, I enhanced some evidence. Yes, I manipulated some situations. But the core truth was real. They're guilty."
"How do I know that?" I demanded. "How do I know you're telling the truth now when you've lied about everything else?"
"You don't," Damien admitted, his shoulders sagging. "You have no reason to trust me. But I'm telling you—stay away from Marcus Hart. He's dangerous. More dangerous than your father ever was."
"How do you know?" I asked.
Damien looked at me with haunted eyes. "Because fifteen years ago, Marcus Hart approached me with a business proposition. He wanted me to help him destroy your father and take over the Hart Empire. I refused. But he didn't give up. He just found other ways."
My heart stopped. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that some of the evidence against your father—the evidence I thought was real—may have been planted by Marcus. I'm saying that I might not have been the only one orchestrating your family's downfall. And I'm saying that Marcus Hart is using you now, just like he used me then."
I stared at him, my mind reeling. If what Damien said was true, then the conspiracy went far deeper than I'd imagined.
"I need proof," I said.
"I'll get you proof," Damien promised. "But Sophia—be careful. If Marcus realizes you're investigating him, he'll come after you. And he won't hesitate to use Sofia against you."
The mention of my daughter sent ice through my veins.
"I'll be careful," I said. "But Damien—if you're lying to me about this—"
"I'm not," he said with absolute certainty. "I've lied about a lot of things. But not this. Marcus Hart is the real monster in this story. And I was just his useful idiot."
---
I left the detention center with more questions than answers.
My phone buzzed as I got into the car. A text from an unknown number:
*"Your husband is lying to you. I can prove it. Meet me tomorrow, 2 PM, at the address below. Come alone. -Marcus"*
Attached was an address in the warehouse district.
I stared at the message, my heart pounding.
Tomorrow, I would have to choose: Trust the man who'd lied to me about everything, or trust the uncle I barely knew who'd mysteriously reappeared just when my family needed him most.
Either way, I was walking into a trap.
The only question was whose.