Chapter 7
One year later, the harsh hospital lights felt entirely different.
I walked back into the burn unit of the county hospital, my heels clicking confidently against the linoleum. Tucked securely under my arm was a thick, royal blue folder. Dr. Lena Ortiz spotted me from the nurses’ station and rushed over, her face breaking into a massive grin.
“Look at you! You’re lifting that right arm higher than you did last month,” she observed, gently squeezing my hand.
“A combination of rigorous physical therapy and pure, unadulterated spite,” I joked, returning her careful hug.
With the massive influx of recovered funds, I had officially founded The Ember Project. It was a massive, non-profit legal and medical foundation specifically designed for victims of domestic abuse whose severe injuries had been cleverly disguised by their abusers as “clumsy accidents.”
We fully funded independent forensic medical examinations. We provided secure, undisclosed emergency housing. We offered encrypted, cloud-based evidence storage for victims currently trapped in the home, and we provided a fleet of ruthless, pro-bono attorneys. Within the first twelve months, forty-one major hospitals across the tri-state area had integrated our protocols.
My very first client was a terrified twenty-two-year-old woman whose wealthy, influential husband had claimed she “tripped and fell” face-first onto a glowing electric stove.
She sat across the desk in my new corner office, clutching a paper cup of tea, her hands trembling so violently the liquid spilled over the edges.
“They won’t believe me,” she whispered, tears cutting tracks through the bandages on her cheek. “He’s a respected banker. They’ll just say I’m crazy. He told everyone I’m unstable.”
“I know exactly what they will say,” I replied gently.
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“He owns everything,” she sobbed, looking down at her lap. “He controls the money, the house, the cars. I have nothing.”
“That,” I said, leaning forward, “is precisely the illusion he desperately wants you to believe.”
