Page 14 of Final Vendetta

The cool evening breeze circled around me, carrying the faint scent of flowers as I walked with Imogene through the garden on the roof of the hospital. Five stories below, the constant murmur and clamor of reporters buzzed like pesky gnats, an incessant reminder that my sins had drawn an audience.

I’d seen the headlines earlier this morning.James Turner Near Death: The Rise and Fall of a Politician. If they knew I was up here with the woman he’d almost killed, they’d have a field day.

Imogene’s arm remained looped through mine as we walked slowly through the lush greenery, her movements tentative but determined.

Five days ago, I didn’t know if she’d ever wake up. Now, her collapsed lung had healed enough for the doctors to remove the chest tube — a small victory in an otherwise unfortunate situation.

She’d been getting up and walking several times a day, each step carefully monitored by nurses or me, per her doctor’s orders. Today was the first time she made it all the way to the rooftop garden. It may have taken her a while, but she refused to give up.

She’d even started mild physical therapy to regain her strength, the sessions short and methodical but grueling. I’d seen the toll they took on her, but she pushed through, gritting her teeth and refusing to let me or anyone else see the worst of her pain.

That fiery spirit of hers, the one that had always drawn me to her, burned as bright as ever. It was impossible not to admire her resilience. At the same time, it gutted me to know she was enduring it all because of me.

Imogene released a soft exhale and came to a stop. She tilted her face toward the sky, a small smile forming as the last streaks of sunset painted the clouds.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I followed her gaze, but found my eyes drawn back to her. Despite the bruises dotting her skin, she remained undeniably beautiful. But it wasn’t just her physical appearance that captivated me. It was her strength.

“It is,” I replied, unable to stop admiring her.

For a moment, the chaos of the world below felt distant and muted. Up here, I could forget everything. My mistakes. My sins. My past. It was just Imogene and me. Like we once dreamed about all those years ago.

But then my cell buzzed in my pocket, a sharp jolt yanking me back to reality. I pulled it out, Henry’s name lighting up the screen with a single message:

He’s gone.

The words were small and unassuming, but their weight crashed into me with unexpected force.

James Turner was dead.

Imogene must have noticed the shift in my expression because she lightly squeezed my arm. “What is it?”

“Turner,” I said evenly. “He’s gone.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just studied me like she was trying to decipher my reaction. We had known this was an inevitability. But now it was real. The man who arranged to sell me had drawn his final breath. The man who had Jonah beat so badly he became brain dead was no longer alive.

“How do you feel?” Imogene asked softly, concern swirling in her dark eyes.

How did I feel? I wasn’t sure how to answer.

It was bittersweet, a hollow victory.

A part of me wanted to revel in his death. In the fact that he could no longer harm anyone else. But another part couldn’t help but feel that his death was too quick, too clean, too easy.

A few days ago, all I could think about was making him suffer like I had. I wanted him to wake up every morning worried he may not survive the day. Wanted him to live in fear of what he may endure during his waking hours.

Those thoughts had brought me to this point — to nearly losing Imogene. I couldn’t go back there.Wouldn’tgo back there.

Never again.

“He got what he deserved,” I declared firmly.

She didn’t look convinced. “You’re not upset it didn’t happen the way you hoped?”

“I told you when you woke up. I’m done with all of that.”

Her eyes stayed on mine, searching for cracks. For any hint I wasn’t being completely honest with her.

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