Ethan
The fallout from my press conference was immediate and explosive. Within hours, the FBI had opened a formal investigation into Michael Connolly. The video evidence I had leaked—obtained through Jake's contacts in the private security world—was enough to trigger a federal RICO case. The corrupt judges and politicians named in Susan Vance's articles were scrambling to distance themselves, issuing denials and hiring crisis management teams.
But the most satisfying moment came three days later, when I received a call from DA Thompson.
"Your wife wants to talk to you," he said, his voice carrying a mixture of exasperation and admiration. "She's been in my office for the past hour, arguing that she should be reinstated to the case. She says that since the threat against you has been neutralized by your very public declaration of war, there's no longer a conflict of interest."
I smiled. That was my Olivia. She had been knocked down, but she was already getting back up, ready to finish the fight.
"Put her on," I said.
"Ethan Brooks," her voice came through the line, and I could hear the fire back in it. The defeated woman from a few days ago was gone. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that no one threatens my wife and gets away with it," I said calmly.
"You could have been killed! You painted a target on your back!"
"A target that's now surrounded by federal agents, investigative journalists, and the entire city watching," I countered. "Connolly can't touch me now without proving everything I said about him. I'm safer now than I've ever been."
There was a pause. "You're insane," she said, but I could hear the smile in her voice.
"I learned from the best," I said. "A certain prosecutor who once publicly endorsed her rival because she believed it was the right thing to do."
"That's different," she argued.
"No, it's not," I said softly. "We both made sacrifices for each other. That's what partners do."
Another pause, longer this time. "Thompson is going to let me back on the case," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "We're going to finish this. Together."
"Together," I agreed. "As it should be."
Two weeks later, I sat in the gallery of the federal courthouse, watching my wife do what she did best. She stood before the grand jury, her posture perfect, her voice clear and commanding. She was presenting the case against Michael Connolly, walking them through the evidence from the diary, the financial records Jake had decrypted, and the testimony from Sarah-Jane.
She was magnificent. Every question was anticipated, every objection deflected with surgical precision. She had transformed the complex web of corruption into a clear, compelling narrative. She was telling a story, and the grand jury was hanging on every word.
When she finished, the foreman of the jury stood. "The grand jury votes to indict Michael Connolly and seventeen co-conspirators on charges of racketeering, bribery, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit murder."
The room erupted. It was over. We had won.
I met her outside the courtroom. She was surrounded by reporters, cameras flashing, microphones thrust in her face. She handled them with grace, giving measured, professional responses. But when her eyes found mine across the crowd, her professional mask slipped, and I saw the pure, unfiltered joy.
She excused herself and made her way to me. Without a word, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her, right there in the courthouse hallway, in front of the cameras and the reporters and the entire world.
"We did it," she whispered against my lips.
"You did it," I corrected. "I just cleared the path."
She pulled back, her hands cupping my face. "No," she said firmly. "We did it. Together. You fought your war, and I fought mine. And we won because we had each other's backs."
She was right. This victory wasn't mine or hers. It was ours. We had faced down a monster, not as individuals, but as a team. As partners. As the people we had become because of each other.
As we walked out of the courthouse, hand in hand, the late afternoon sun warm on our faces, I felt a profound sense of peace. The war was over. The monster was defeated. And the woman I loved was safe, victorious, and by my side.
Our bet, all those years ago in a frat house kitchen, had been about winning an election. But what we had won was so much more. We had won each other. We had won a partnership that could weather any storm. We had won a love that was stronger than fear, stronger than ambition, stronger than anything the world could throw at us.
And that, I knew, was the greatest victory of all.