Chapter 57 Things are getting Better
Lara's pov
Emma was six months old when Damien came home looking weird.
Not bad weird. Just... different.
He had this look on his face. Like he was holding something back.
"What?" I asked.
"What what?"
"You have a face. What's going on?"
Ethan looked up from his homework. "Yeah, Daddy has a weird face."
Damien laughed. "I don't have a weird face."
"You do," I said. "Spill it."
He sat down at the kitchen table. Pulled out his phone.
"I got a call today. From a lawyer."
My stomach dropped. "A lawyer? Why? Is Lucas—"
"No no no. Nothing like that. This is... different."
"Okay. So what is it?"
He showed me his phone. An email.
"Lucas's mother. Claire. Remember she died a few years ago?"
"Yeah. Heart attack or something."
"Stroke. But yeah. Anyway, apparently she had a will that nobody knew about."
I frowned. "What do you mean nobody knew about?"
"It was hidden. In a safety deposit box. The bank just found it during some audit."
"Okay? And what does that have to do with us?"
Damien took a breath. "She left everything to Ethan."
I blinked. "What?"
"Everything. Her house. Her savings. Some stocks. About three million dollars total."
I couldn't speak for a second.
"Why would she leave anything to Ethan? She never even met him."
"The will was written right before she died. It says something about... hold on, let me read it."
He scrolled through the email.
"'To my grandson Ethan, though we never met, I leave everything I have. May this money give you the life my son could not.'"
My eyes filled with tears.
"She thought Lucas was his father."
"Yeah. She must have."
"But he's not."
"I know that. You know that. But she didn't."
Ethan was listening to all of this with wide eyes.
"Is this about Lucas's mom?"
"Yeah, baby."
"She left me money?"
"A lot of money. For college. For your future."
He thought about it. "But she was Lucas's mom. And Lucas is bad."
"She didn't know Lucas was bad, sweetie. She just loved him because he was her son."
"Should I take the money?"
Damien and I looked at each other.
That was the question, wasn't it?
That night after Ethan went to bed, Damien and I talked about it.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I don't know. It feels... weird."
"Weird how?"
"Like taking money from Lucas's family. Even though it's from his dead mother."
"But she wanted Ethan to have it."
"She thought Lucas was his father though. If she knew the truth, would she still have left it to him?"
Damien shrugged. "We'll never know."
"Exactly. So it feels wrong."
"Or," Damien said slowly, "it's the universe giving back what Lucas took from you."
I looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"He stole your inheritance. Your father's money. Maybe this is karma. Giving some of it back through his own mother."
"That's a weird way to look at it."
"Is it though?"
I thought about it.
Claire didn't know the truth. She wrote that will thinking she was helping her grandson.
And in a way, she was. Just not the grandson she thought.
"If we take it," I said, "it goes into a trust for Ethan. College fund. Nothing else."
"Agreed."
"And we tell him the truth when he's old enough to understand. About where it came from."
"Agreed."
"Okay then. We'll take it."
Two weeks later, the paperwork was finalized.
Three million dollars transferred into a trust fund in Ethan's name.
He couldn't touch it until he was eighteen. And even then, it was earmarked for education.
The lawyer handling it asked if we wanted to make a statement.
"Statement about what?"
"The Ward family is asking. They're upset about the will."
"Which family members?"
"Lucas's cousins. They think the money should have gone to them."
Of course they did.
"Tell them the will was clear. Claire wanted Ethan to have it. That's final."
"They might contest it."
"Let them try. We have a legal will. They have nothing."
The lawyer smiled a little. "I'll pass that along."
A month later, something else happened.
I was at the office. Yes, I went back after Emma turned four months. Part time but still.
My assistant knocked on my door.
"Mrs. Otto? There's someone here to see you."
"I don't have any appointments this afternoon."
"I know. But she says it's important. Her name is Rachel."
"Rachel who?"
"She didn't say. Just Rachel."
I was curious. "Okay. Send her in."
A woman walked in. Maybe forty years old. Blonde hair. Tired eyes.
I didn't recognize her.
"Can I help you?"
She sat down without being invited. "I'm Lucas's ex-girlfriend."
Oh.
"From before you," she continued. "We dated for three years."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"Why are you here?"
"Because I saw you on the news. With your company. And I realized... you got out."
"Got out?"
"From him. From Lucas. You got away and you rebuilt your life."
Her eyes were filling with tears.
"I didn't. I let him destroy me. And I never recovered."
I sat down across from her. "What do you mean?"
"He did the same things to me. The control. The abuse. The stealing. All of it."
My chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
"I pressed charges once. But I dropped them. He convinced me it was my fault. That I was overreacting."
"That's what abusers do."
"I know that now. But back then..." She wiped her eyes. "Anyway. I'm not here for sympathy. I'm here because I wanted to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For putting him in prison. For making sure he can never do this to anyone else."
I didn't know what to say.
"How many of us were there, do you think?" she asked. "How many women did he do this to?"
"I don't know. Too many."
She nodded. "He's where he belongs now. Because of you."
"Not just me. A lot of people helped."
"But you started it. You were brave enough to leave. To fight back."
She stood up.
"I just wanted you to know that. That you saving yourself probably saved other women too."
She left before I could respond.
I told Damien about it that evening.
"How did that make you feel?" he asked.
"Weird. Sad. Angry that he did that to other people."
"But also?"
"Also... I don't know. Proud? Is that wrong?"
"No. Not wrong at all."
"I just never thought about it that way. That getting away from Lucas might have helped other people."
"You showed them it was possible."
I thought about Rachel's face. The pain in her eyes.
"I wish I could have helped her more."
"You did help. By existing. By surviving. By thriving."
When Emma turned eight months old, I made a decision.
I was going to write a book.
Not about Lucas specifically. But about surviving abuse. Rebuilding after trauma. Finding yourself again.
I told Damien over breakfast.
"A book? Really?"
"Yeah. Why? Do you think it's a bad idea?"
"No. I think it's a great idea. I'm just surprised."
"Why surprised?"
"You've always been private. A book is very... public."
He was right. I had been private.
But maybe it was time to stop being private.
Maybe my story could help someone else.
"I don't have to use real names," I said. "I can change details. But the core of it... the survival part... that could help people."
"Then you should do it."
"Really?"
"Really. When do you start?"
"I already started. I wrote three pages last night after you fell asleep."
He smiled. "Of course you did."
Writing the book was harder than I expected.
Not the writing part. The remembering part.
Every chapter brought back memories I'd tried to bury.
The first time Lucas hit me.
The night I found out he stole from my father.
The moment I realized I had to leave or die.
Some nights I cried while writing.
Some nights Damien had to take the laptop away and make me stop.
"You don't have to do this," he'd say.
"Yes I do."
"Why?"
"Because if one person reads it and realizes they're not alone... it's worth it."
Six months later, the book was done.
Two hundred pages.
My entire journey from victim to survivor.
I sent it to a literary agent Margaret recommended.
She called me a week later.
"I want to represent you."
"Really?"
"This book is powerful. Raw. Real. Publishers are going to want this."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Three publishers bid on it.
We went with the one that promised the widest distribution.
"We want this book in every bookstore. Every library. Every woman's hands who needs it," the editor said.
"That's exactly what I want too."
The book was scheduled to publish in eight months.
Right around Emma's second birthday.
Which meant I had eight months to prepare for the publicity.
The interviews. The questions. The attention.
I wasn't sure I was ready.
But I was going to do it anyway.
Because some things are more important than being comfortable.
Some things are worth being uncomfortable for.
And if my story could help even one person?
That was worth everything.
One night, I was feeding Emma before bed.
She was babbling. Not real words yet but getting close.
Ethan came in to say goodnight.
Nine years old now. Tall. Smart. Kind.
"Mommy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Are you scared? About the book?"
"A little. Why?"
"Because you're very brave. Even when you're scared."
I smiled. "Who told you that?"
"Daddy. He says you're the bravest person he knows."
"Well, Daddy is biased."
"What's biased mean?"
"It means he loves me so he thinks I'm better than I am."
Ethan shook his head. "No. I think you're brave too. And I don't have to be biased because you're just my mom."
I laughed. "Just your mom, huh?"
"You know what I mean."
He kissed Emma's head. Then mine.
"Goodnight, Mommy."
"Goodnight, baby."
After he left, I looked at Emma.
Her eyes were getting heavy. Almost asleep.
"You know what, Emma?" I whispered. "Your brother is right. I am brave. Not because I'm not scared. But because I do things anyway."
She yawned.
"And someday, I'm going to teach you to be brave too. To stand up for yourself. To never let anyone make you feel small."
She fell asleep in my arms.
And I sat there holding her.
Thinking about how far I'd come.
From a scared girl who let a man control her entire life.
To a woman with a company. A family. A book.
A life worth living.
Yeah.
I was brave.
And I was finally starting to believe it.