Caden laughed once — too high, too unhinged — when his offshore accounts were shown on screen including his deed.
He watched the footage like it was a mildly interesting commercial.
Empty.
Emotionless.
Rotten.
I wanted to kill him right there.
Judge Marlowe exhaled like he aged ten years in a minute.
"The court recognizes the gravity of these acts," he said. "We will proceed with witness testimonies."
Rivers nodded.
"Prosecution calls Dr. Reina Kassel."
****
Kassel walked with steady precision.
Her presence alone brought a hush — clinical, unshakable, lethal in truth.
She raised her hand, was sworn in, and sat.
"Dr. Kassel," Rivers began, "state your qualifications."
"Neurologist. Trauma specialist. Head of St. Lambert’s VIP unit. Fifteen years of clinical experience."
"And your involvement with the victims?"
"I treated Mrs. Isabella Walton and Mrs. Elise Walton," she said. "Both suffered severe physical trauma. Mrs. Isabella Walton also experienced significant neurological damage."
Caden rolled his shoulders, restless.
Kassel continued.
"In my professional opinion, the psychological and physical assault performed on Mrs. Walton directly contributed to the miscarriage of her two-month pregnancy."
The courtroom shattered.
Gasps.
Caden’s expression twitched, almost imperceptibly.
My father bowed his head.
Judge Marlowe’s gavel thundered.
"ORDER!"
Kassel’s voice was steady.
"The child — unknown to Mr. Walton at the time — was lost because of blunt force trauma combined with stress-induced shock."
My vision swam.
Not with weakness—
with murder.
Cameron placed a hand on my arm. Pressure: steady.
Rivers stepped forward.
"And in your professional opinion —"
"Yes," Kassel said bitterly, jaw tightening, "the defendants are directly and medically responsible."
****
The judge’s voice cut through the courtroom like a blade:
"Clara Langford, for the premeditated murder of Sophia Walton... for the attempted murder of Isabella Walton... for conspiracy, obstruction, psychological warfare and aggravated assault... you are hereby sentenced to death by electrocution."
The words hit Clara like a physical blow. Her already pale face drained to an ashen white. Her jaw went slack, the wild, cornered look in her eyes morphing into pure, unadulterated terror.
Her scream ricocheted off the walls.
Not just guilt.
Or fear.
Entitlement breaking.
Her mother wasn’t there.
Her father wasn’t there.
Not a single Langford showed up to claim her.
For the first time in her life, Clara Langford had no audience.
And then she broke.
It was not a slow fracture. She rose from her seat like a marionette cut loose, dragged herself across the barrier and tore toward me, hands clawing for purchase that the court would not allow. "Adri—" she screamed, voice shredding into a thousand apologies and crazed pleas, "Adri — please — listen — I didn’t mean to — please — you have to listen to me — i can explain — i can fix everything — don’t let them kill me — don’t let them — Adrien!!!"
Bailiffs grabbed her.
She fought like a wild animal.
"I LOVE YOU! I DID EVERYTHING FOR YOU — YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND — I WAS THE ONE WHO ALWAYS — ALWAYS — STOOD BY YOU — NOT ANY— NOT ANY—"
"Remove her," Judge Marlowe snapped.
As they dragged her away, she clawed toward me, fingers reaching for thin air.
"ADRIEN! LOOK AT ME—LOOK AT ME—LOOK AT M—"
The courtroom doors slammed after her.
The judge continued.
"Caden Walton — born Caden Pierce..."
He stiffened.
"...DNA evidence confirms you are not biologically related to the Walton family. Your identity under that name is revoked from all civil and federal records."
The judge paused, letting the weight of his declaration settle. Caden’s face, which had been a mask of indifferent amusement, contorted. The carefully crafted facade crumbled, revealing a flicker of panic, raw and undisguised.
"For multiple counts of murder, conspiracy, hostage terrorism, illegal warfare, aggravated assault, attempted homicide and attempting to destabilize a global economic power... you are hereby sentenced to death by..."
I watched the judge’s mouth form the words.
But I already knew the sentence meant nothing.
He’d never reach that execution room.
Not alive.
Father. No. Henry Walton didn’t look at me as the judge listed his crimes—abuse of power, obstruction of justice, embezzlement, fraud, bribery, conspiracy to kill his own blood. His sentence:
"Life imprisonment without parole."
Life.
A mercy he didn’t deserve—but one that served me better.
Dead men can’t confess to the remaining things I need uncovered.
The bang of the gavel felt final enough to echo inside my ribs.
Cameras exploded into noise. Reporters shot to their feet shouting questions like rabid animals.
"Mr. Walton—"
"Mr. Walton—did you know?"
"Is it true your wife was—"
"Is Isabella okay?"
"why is your wife not here?"
My jaw tightened.
Isabella.
She was safe at her dad’s, unaware, recovering, fragile-boned memory held together by Kassel’s warnings.
She didn’t need this.
She couldn’t see this.
Not the details.
Not the headlines.
Not the histories soaked in blood.
I rose from my seat.
Gray was already near the exit, in place exactly where I expected him—sharp suit, sharper gaze, phone in hand.
When the reporters surged toward me, I gave him a single nod.
Barely a tilt of my chin.
He understood.
Always did.
In seconds, men stepped in front of the mob, and gray’s voice projected with a clean, dangerous authority that cut through the chaos:
"Mr. Walton will not be taking questions today. All media regarding this case must be cleared through our legal office. No explicit details. No recordings from inside. No statements regarding Mrs. Walton — per medical privacy laws."
The crowd protested immediately.
Gray didn’t flinch.
Security closed in, forming a barrier around me. Cameras were gently—but firmly—lowered. The doors behind me opened as Gray continued to drown the noise with professional, lethal calm.
I walked through the exit without looking back.
And in the quiet of the corridor, far from the cameras and the shouts, the truth settled in my bones:
This was never about justice.
This was about legitimacy.
About putting the system on record, so when Clara and Caden disappeared from the prison pipeline...no one would question it.
No one would connect it to me.
The law served as my alibi.
My real sentence for them... hadn’t begun yet.