I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, claiming it was ‘good for the baby.’ When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard I began to miscarry. I reached for my phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and mocked me: ‘I’m a lawyer. You won’t win.’ I looked him straight in the eyes and said calmly: ‘Then call my father.’ He laughed as he dialed, unaware that his legal career was about to end.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And make sure,” my father added, lowering his voice to a terrifying whisper, “he understands exactly who he fucked with.”

Chapter 6: Freedom

Six months later

The garden at my father’s Virginia estate was in full bloom. Cherry blossoms fell like pink snow.

I sat on a stone bench, feeling the sun on my face. My body had healed almost completely. The scars on my back had faded into thin white lines. The scar on my heart—the empty space where my baby should have been—was still raw, but bearable now.

While sitting on the bench, I picked up the Washington Post.

The headline read: “Former Attorney David Miller Sentenced to 25 Years.”

I read the article.

David had been federally charged. Assault on the family member of a federal judge carried severe penalties.

But they also found other things. When my father’s friends started digging, they uncovered that David had been embezzling from clients. They found fraud. They found everything.