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Fifteen years.

A five million dollar fine.

No parole for the first eight years.

The words land like a fucking gut punch. My father stays still, absorbing it the way he does everything like it’s just another business deal gone wrong.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

And then it’s over.

He’s escorted out.

I don’t even get a last look before he’s gone.

The second I step outside, cameras flash in my face.

“Eli! What do you have to say about your father’s sentencing?”

“Did you know about his crimes?”

“Are you involved?”

I shove past them, jaw clenched, ignoring the microphones shoved in my face. My head is pounding. A bodyguard pushes people back, clearing a path, but it doesn’t stop the voices.

“Eli, are you worried about your family name?”

I get to the car and slam the door shut. My chest heaves. I drop my head back against the seat.

“Just drive,” I mutter to the driver.

The house is too quiet.

Too fucking empty.

I stand in the living room, staring at nothing. The silence presses in, making everything worse. I walk to the cabinet in the corner, pull open a drawer, and grab the small pendant tucked inside.

It’s old. Faded. Inside is a tiny picture of my mom.

My fingers shake as I hold it.

Everything I’ve been shoving down — every ounce of anger, grief, loneliness — slams into me all at once. My throat tightens, and I press the pendant to my lips, squeezing my eyes shut.

I breathe in.

And then—

The tears come.

I sink down onto the couch, gripping the chain, and just fucking cry.

My phone rings.

I wipe my face, try to pull myself together before answering. “Yeah?”

“Eli?”

Sienna.