I never told my ex-husband or his wealthy family that I was the secret owner of the multi-billion dollar company where they all worked. To them, I was just the "poor, pregnant burden" they tolerated out of obligation.

Six months later.

The spring rain had returned to Boston, but this time, it brought the sweet, fresh scent of blooming dogwood trees and green grass.

In the private luxury maternity suite of the Vance Memorial Hospital, the room was filled with fresh white lilies, soft classical music, and the warm, quiet glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through the large windows.

I lay on the soft, elevated hospital bed, wearing a silk gown, holding a tiny, perfect bundle wrapped in a pink fleece blanket against my chest.

My daughter opened her dark blue eyes, looking up at me, letting out a soft, sweet sigh before nuzzling against my collarbone.

"She’s beautiful, Cassidy," Arthur said softly, standing beside the bed, holding a small silver rattle engraved with the Vance crest.

"She has my father's eyes," I smiled, tears of pure joy glistening in my eyes as I kissed my baby's soft forehead. "And her mother's strength."

"What is her name, ma'am?" Arthur asked gently.

I looked down at the tiny girl sleeping peacefully in my arms—a girl who would never know poverty, never know cruelty, and never have to bow her head to arrogant bullies.

"Victoria," I answered softly. "Victoria Vance. Because she represents our victory over everything that tried to break us."

Arthur smiled proudly, bowing his head respectfully. "A splendid name, Chairwoman Vance. Victoria Vance. Heiress to Vance Global Holdings."

A soft knock sounded at the door. Thomas Vance stepped inside, holding a thin leather folder.

"Pardon the interruption, Ms. Vance," Thomas said respectfully. "A delivery arrived from the Suffolk County Facility for you."

I held out my hand. Thomas handed me a single, plain white envelope.

I opened it. Inside was a handwritten letter from Brendan, written on cheap lined paper provided by the prison library.

Cassidy,

I am writing this from my cell. I watched the news today on the common room television. They announced that you gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

I know I have no right to ask this, and I know I will never see her face, but please... tell her one day that her father was sorry. Tell her that I was a fool who traded pure gold for worthless brass.

My mother passes her time staring out the window of her room in West Roxbury, calling out your name to people who aren't there. We have nothing left. You won completely.

May God protect our daughter.

Brendan.

I read the letter slowly, feeling no anger, no satisfaction, and no lingering pain. The words were just faint ink on cheap paper—a distant echo of a life I had left far behind in the cold mud of that Sunday night.

I handed the letter back to Thomas.

"Burn it," I commanded quietly.