Damien arrived at noon the next day.
I watched from the window as the car pulled up—not his usual luxury vehicle, but a standard sedan provided by the FBI. He stepped out looking haggard, wearing the same clothes he'd been arrested in days ago, his beard unkempt, dark circles under his eyes.
He looked like a man who'd aged years in a week.
Eleanor opened the door, and I heard their muffled conversation in the foyer. Then his footsteps coming up the stairs. Slow. Hesitant.
He appeared in the nursery doorway where I stood holding Sofia.
"Sophia," he said, his voice rough.
"Damien," I replied.
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Then his eyes moved to Sofia, and his entire face transformed. Pain, love, longing—all of it written across his features.
"Can I—" he started.
I walked over and placed Sofia in his arms.
Damien held our daughter like she was made of glass, tears streaming down his face. "God, I missed you," he whispered to her. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry."
Sofia stared up at him with those wide blue eyes, then grabbed his finger and held on.
"She's gotten so big," Damien said, his voice breaking. "I was only gone a week and she's already bigger."
"She's growing fast," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
We stood there in awkward silence while Damien cradled our daughter. Finally, Sofia started fussing, and I took her back to feed her.
"We need to talk," I said.
"I know," Damien said. "Should I—can I stay? Or should I get a hotel?"
"There's a guest room on the third floor," I said. "You can stay there. For now."
Relief flooded his face. "Thank you."
---
After Sofia went down for her nap, Damien and I sat in my office—formerly our office—on opposite sides of the desk like strangers negotiating a business deal.
Which, in a way, we were.
"I don't know how to start this conversation," Damien admitted.
"Start with the truth," I said. "All of it. No more lies. No more manipulation. Just the truth."
Damien took a deep breath. "I married you for revenge. I've admitted that. But somewhere in the first month, it stopped being about revenge and started being about you. About us."
"When?" I challenged. "When exactly did you fall in love with me? Was it before or after you planted evidence against my father? Before or after you destroyed innocent people's lives?"
"I don't know," Damien said honestly. "It wasn't a single moment. It was gradual. You were supposed to be a tool—a way to get close to Richard Hart, to legitimize my revenge. But you were so much more than that. You were strong and kind and you'd survived the same kind of betrayal I had."
"So you loved me because we were both damaged?" I asked bitterly.
"I loved you because you were trying to be better than your damage," Damien said. "Because you could have become bitter and cruel, but you chose to be kind instead. You chose to build something rather than destroy."
"And yet you destroyed everything anyway," I said.
"I did," Damien admitted. "I destroyed your family, my own moral compass, innocent people's lives—all in the name of revenge that never made anything better. Elena was right. My father would have been ashamed of what I became."
He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "But Sophia, I need you to understand—Sofia changed everything. The moment I held her for the first time, the moment I saw you with her—I stopped caring about revenge. I stopped caring about anything except protecting you two. That's why I confessed to the FBI. That's why I turned myself in. Because I couldn't be the kind of father she needed while living a lie."
"But the damage was already done," I said quietly.
"I know," Damien said. "And I can't undo it. I can't give back those years to the people I wrongly imprisoned. I can't restore the businesses I destroyed or the lives I ruined. All I can do is spend the rest of my life trying to make amends."
"How?" I asked. "How do you make amends for destroying lives?"
"I don't know," Damien admitted. "But I'm going to try. I'm working with the FBI to overturn wrongful convictions. I'm setting up a fund to compensate victims. I'm liquidating my assets to make restitution. It won't be enough—it'll never be enough—but it's something."
I studied him carefully. "What do you want from me, Damien?"
"I want another chance," he said immediately. "I want to be your husband. I want to be Sofia's father. I want us to be a family."
"I don't know if I can give you that," I said honestly.
Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "I understand."
"Do you?" I asked. "Do you understand that every time I look at you, I remember what you've done? That I lie awake at night wondering what other secrets you're keeping? That I can't trust anything you say because you've lied about everything?"
"Yes," Damien said quietly. "I understand that. And I know I don't deserve forgiveness. I don't deserve a second chance. But Sophia—" his voice cracked, "—I love you. I love Sofia. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that if you'll let me."
"What if it's not enough?" I asked. "What if I can never trust you again?"
"Then I'll accept that," Damien said. "But I still want to be Sofia's father. I still want to be part of her life, even if I can't be part of yours."
I stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the gardens. "I've been thinking about this for days. About what's fair, what's right, what's best for Sofia."
"And?" Damien asked.
"And I think we need to separate," I said, turning to face him. "Not divorce—not yet. But separate. You need to move out. Get your own place. We'll do shared custody—week on, week off. You'll have full access to Sofia, but you and I—we need distance."
"Sophia—"
"I need space to heal, Damien," I interrupted. "I need space to figure out who I am without you, without the revenge, without all the lies. And I need to protect myself because I almost died. Marcus almost killed me, and part of that was because of your revenge. Because of the life you built on destruction."
Damien's shoulders sagged. "You're right. I know you're right."
"We'll do therapy," I continued. "Both individual and couples counseling. And maybe—maybe after a year or two, we can reevaluate. But right now, I need you to not be here."
"When?" Damien asked, his voice hollow.
"Soon," I said. "Find a place this week. We'll work out the custody schedule with lawyers. Everything legal and proper."
"I love you," Damien said desperately. "I know I've destroyed everything, but I love you."
"I know," I said, and I meant it. "But love isn't enough. It's never been enough. We need trust. We need honesty. We need a foundation that isn't built on revenge and lies."
"Can we build that?" Damien asked. "Eventually?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Ask me in a year."
---
That evening, Damien spent hours with Sofia. I watched from the doorway as he changed her diaper, fed her a bottle, read her stories she was too young to understand. He was gentle, patient, completely devoted.
He was a good father. Even if he'd been a terrible husband.
"I'm going to find a place near here," Damien said when Sofia finally fell asleep. "Somewhere close enough that she can go back and forth easily."
"That's good," I said.
"Can I come back tomorrow? To see her?"
"Of course," I said. "You're her father. You can see her whenever you want. Within reason."
Damien nodded, then hesitated at the door. "Sophia, I know I don't have the right to ask this, but—please don't give up on us. Not completely. Leave the door open, just a crack. Please."
I looked at this man who'd destroyed so much, who'd built our marriage on lies, who'd almost gotten me killed—but who also loved our daughter with absolute devotion.
"The door's open," I said finally. "But Damien, if you want to walk through it again, you have to earn it. You have to become someone I can trust. And I don't know if that's possible."
"I'll try," he promised. "Every day, I'll try."
After he left, I went upstairs to check on Sofia one more time. She was sleeping peacefully, unaware that her family was fracturing around her.
"It's just you and me for a while," I whispered to her. "But that's okay. We're going to be okay."
I almost believed it.
---
The next morning, I received a call from my father's lawyer.
"Mrs. Blackwood, I wanted to inform you that Richard Hart has accepted the plea deal. He'll be released tomorrow morning. He asked if you'd be willing to pick him up from the facility."
My father. Released. After everything.
"I'll be there," I said.
After hanging up, I sat in stunned silence. In the span of a week, I'd nearly been killed, separated from my husband, and now my father was being released from prison.
My entire world was transforming, and I didn't know if I was ready for it.
Maya found me sitting in the kitchen, staring at nothing.
"You okay?" she asked.
"My father's being released tomorrow," I said. "I'm supposed to pick him up."
Maya sat down beside me. "How do you feel about that?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He's my father. He committed real crimes. But he also was manipulated by Marcus and Damien. And he's been in prison while I've been out here living in luxury built on those crimes. How do I face him? What do I even say?"
"You say what you need to say," Maya suggested. "No more, no less. You don't owe him forgiveness. But you also don't owe him cruelty."
"I don't know what I owe anyone anymore," I said, exhausted. "Everyone wants something from me. Forgiveness, trust, second chances. And I'm so tired of being the one who has to decide who deserves what."
"Then don't decide yet," Maya said. "Just show up. See your father. See how you feel. You don't have to make any grand declarations."
She was right. I didn't have to have all the answers.
I just had to keep showing up.
The next morning, I drove to the federal facility alone. I'd left Sofia with Elena, not ready to expose her to prisons and complicated family dynamics.
My father emerged looking smaller than I remembered. Prison had stripped away his authority, his commanding presence. He was just an old man in ill-fitting civilian clothes, carrying a small bag of possessions.
When he saw me, he stopped.
We stared at each other across the parking lot—this man who'd raised me, ignored me, been destroyed and rebuilt—and I felt a complicated tangle of emotions I couldn't name.
Then he started walking toward me, and I met him halfway.
"Sophia," he said, his voice rough. "Thank you for coming."
"Where else would I be?" I asked.
We stood awkwardly, neither of us sure whether to hug or shake hands or just maintain distance.
Finally, my father said, "I'm sorry. For everything. I know it doesn't fix anything, but I'm sorry."
"I know," I said. "Let's go home."
As we drove away from the prison, my father looked out the window at the world he'd been separated from for months.
"Everything looks different," he said quietly.
"Everything is different," I replied.
And it was.
We were all different now.
Broken. Healing. Trying to build something better from the ruins.
Whether we'd succeed remained to be seen.
But at least we were trying.
And maybe that was enough.