Mag-log in
Aloe’s POV
I knew something was wrong the moment I heard the laughter, it was coming from our matrimonial bedroom. It wasn't the warm, guarded chuckle I used to pull from Wakes on our better days either.
My fingers froze on the banister, as my pulse crawled up into my throat, pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears.
For a moment, I told myself I was imagining it, that maybe one of the staff was inside,or maybe Wakes was on the phone with a client. But then came the moan that ripped through every fragile excuse I’d been clinging to.
My Wakes was moaning, in his usual deep, and low moan, that particular tone he used when he wanted me. Only this time, it wasn’t for me.
My legs moved before my brain could stop them. I pushed the door open, and immediately, my world stopped.
There he was; Wakes Savage, my husband standing shirtless by the bed, his hands gripping the hips of a woman I’d never seen before. She was perched on the edge in nothing but his dress shirt, her lipstick smeared across his mouth like a stain neither of them cared to hide.
I stood rooted at a spot, my eyes already teary. His head snapped toward me, those grey eyes locking on mine, I thought he would maybe hold shock or surprise, but it was filled with irritation, as if I’d just interrupted him signing a business deal.
“Aloe,” he said flatly. “What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here? In my own bedroom?
The words I wanted to scream tangled in my throat. My chest felt too tight to breathe, my eyes already stinging. My gaze shifted to her, to the way she smirked like she’d just claimed a prize I’d foolishly left unattended.
I stepped further inside, my voice trembling. “Who… who is she?”
He didn’t even blink. “No one you need to know.”
The casual cruelty of it hit me harder than if he’d just shouted.
“No one I need to know? She’s in our bed, Wakes!”
The woman slid off the mattress with a deliberate slowness that made my stomach twist. She walked past me without a glance.
When we were alone, he picked up his discarded shirt and began buttoning it like I wasn’t even there.
“I told you not to come home early,” he said.
My hands were shaking so hard I had to curl them into fists. “And you told me you loved me.”
His laugh was short and humorless. “Stop being dramatic, Aloe. It’s not like you’ve been much of a wife lately.”
That one sentence didn’t just hurt, it split something open in me. The last few months of distance, the cold dinners, the excuses, the way he barely touched me unless it was for appearances, it all clicked into brutal, perfect focus.
“I’ve been trying, Wakes,” I whispered. “I’ve been trying so hard.”
“Well, try harder,” he said, brushing past me. His shoulder clipped mine. I stumbled backwards but caught myself, swallowing the lump in my throat.
I wanted to tell him right then. I wanted to throw the truth at him that I’m pregnant. But the words were stuck. Not because I didn’t want him to know, but because I didn’t trust what he’d do with that knowledge.
He stopped at the doorway. “We have an event Saturday night. Go shop for something decent. And for God’s sake, fix your face before anyone sees you’ve been crying.”
The door shut behind him, leaving silence so heavy I could hear my own breathing.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space he’d left, the sheets still wrinkled from someone else’s body. The hot tears then came, sliding down my cheeks until they dripped onto my trembling hands.
I wanted to scream and smash every lamp, every glass, until there was nothing left but shards, until the room outside matched the wreckage inside me. But instead, my knees gave out. I sank to the floor, curling over as I pressed my hand against my belly.
I’d known love could hurt but I hadn’t known it could feel like a trap.
Because it wasn’t just my heart in danger anymore, it was the tiny heartbeat I’d only just learned about a few hours ago.
The memory of that moment came back sharp and uninvited: the sterile doctor’s office, the quiet smile when she’d told me, “You’re about six weeks along.” I’d walked out with my hands protectively over my stomach, thinking of how I’d tell him. I’d pictured him smiling for the first time in months, maybe even holding me the way he used to.
But now… now the thought of telling him felt dangerous.
I pressed my forehead to my knees, whispering the truth into the darkness. “I can’t stay here. Not like this.”
But fear wrapped itself around my resolve. Leaving Wakes wasn’t just walking away from a marriage, it was walking away from the only life I’d known for the past three years. He had money, power and influence. A temper that could turn cold into cruel in the space of a single heartbeat.
I thought about the first time we met, how his attention had been intoxicating. How easy it had been to mistake possession for love. How quickly I’d let him become the center of my life.
That version of me felt like a stranger now. And right now something inside me has changed, it was like that kind of feeling when a locked door starts cracking open.
I can't continue staying here, wakes do cheat but bringing them into our home, I didn’t know if I would be able to bear that, how will my child be able to grow in such an environment.
I don't know where I would go if I leave here, or if I’d make it out alive. But one thing had become painfully, undeniably clear…
I would not survive more than one night in this marriage. And I will do anything… Anything at all to make that happen.
Aloe's POVTwenty years after Morrison's revenge was exposed, we gathered at the foundation's twentieth anniversary celebration. The event took place at the same Portland convention center where we'd celebrated the tenth anniversary, but everything else had changed.The foundation now operated in all fifty states, had staff exceeding five hundred, and had helped exonerate 312 people each representing years of life saved from wrongful imprisonment. The numbers were staggering, the impact immeasurable.James flew in from Seattle where he worked as structural engineer, his career completely divorced from criminal justice but successful and fulfilling. At twenty-seven, he'd recently gotten engaged to fellow engineer, building life unconnected to our family's dramatic history.Hope, now twenty-two, was investigative journalist for major news network, her documentary work having launched career that was already garnering awards and recognition. She'd maintained focus on criminal justice rep
Blake's POVThe documentary filmmaker contacted me through Sofia, who'd become expert at filtering legitimate opportunities from time-wasters. This one, she assured me, was legitimate established director with multiple awards, serious production company backing, genuine interest in telling comprehensive story about Morrison's revenge and its aftermath."Her name is Carmen Rodriguez," Sofia explained during phone call. "She's done documentaries about wrongful convictions before, won several film festival awards. She wants to make feature-length film about your case, the foundation's work, and the broader implications for criminal justice reform.""How intrusive?""Very. She wants access to family, foundation operations, interviews with everyone involved. It's comprehensive project, probably two years from start to release."I discussed it with Aloe that evening. "Documentary about Morrison's revenge means reliving everything publicly the arrest, the trial, the vindication, all of it ca
Aloe's POVJames graduated high school with no particular interest in criminal justice reform, which felt like small victory. At eighteen, he'd decided to pursue engineering at Oregon State, choosing field completely unrelated to the cause that defined our family."I'm proud of you for finding your own path," Blake told him during graduation dinner. "You don't have to follow in my footsteps or dedicate yourself to the work that consumed my life.""I know. But honestly, Dad, watching you fight all those years—it was exhausting just being near it. I want career that doesn't involve constant battles and systemic injustice. I want to build bridges, literally, not metaphorically fix broken systems.""That's completely valid. Someone needs to build actual infrastructure."Daniel, now fifteen, had different perspective. He'd grown up hearing stories about Morrison's revenge as family history, had watched Blake and Wakes work on foundation projects his entire conscious life, had Hope as older
Wakes's POVI sat in my office overlooking Manhattan fifteen years after my release from prison, reviewing financial statements for the Second Chances Initiative. The foundation had grown beyond anything Blake or I had imagined when we started it—offices in twenty-three states, staff of over two hundred, annual budget exceeding $50 million."We've helped exonerate 187 people," Evelyn reported during our monthly update call. She'd become foundation's chief operating officer three years ago, transforming from recent college graduate to essential leader. "Plus provided crucial support in over 400 other cases. Dad, the impact is exponential every person we help becomes advocate for others.""You've done this, Evelyn. Your organizational skills, your dedication the foundation wouldn't be this successful without you.""It's team effort. But thank you."After hanging up, I stared out at the city where I'd built business empire through ethically questionable means decades ago. That version of
Blake's POVHope's documentary project consumed our household for months. At thirteen, she'd developed obsessive dedication to storytelling that reminded me uncomfortably of myself at that age—before prison, before Morrison, before any of the complications that defined my adult life."Dad, I need to interview you about Morrison's revenge," she announced one Saturday morning, camera equipment already set up in our living room. "And I need you to be honest, not give me the sanitized version you tell journalists.""What makes you think there's sanitized version?""Because I've read all three of your books and watched your interviews. You talk about Morrison's revenge like it's distant historical event. But it happened to you—to us. I want the real emotional truth, not the public narrative."I sat across from her camera, suddenly nervous about being interrogated by my own daughter."Okay, Hope. What do you want to know?""How did it feel when the FBI arrested you? Like, actually feel, not
Aloe's POVThe Second Chances Initiative celebrated its tenth anniversary in November with gala event at Portland's convention center. Ten years since Wakes and Blake had founded it, since they'd transformed from enemies to allies working toward shared purpose of preventing wrongful convictions and supporting reform."A hundred and forty-three exonerations," Sofia announced during her presentation, Maya now four years old and sitting quietly in the audience beside Heron. "Combined total of 1,847 years of wrongful imprisonment prevented. Reforms implemented in nineteen states based on our advocacy work. This is what ten years of dedicated effort accomplishes."The audience—foundation staff, donors, exonerees, legislators, advocates applauded sustained recognition of achievements that had seemed impossible when the organization first launched.Blake was scheduled to speak, but he'd asked me to introduce him. "You've been part of this from the beginning," he'd said during planning. "You







