He Chose The Maid Over The Heiress Chapter 09

He Chose The Maid Over The Heiress Chapter 09

Kimberly POV 

The divorce was finalized in just three months. 

It should have taken a year, a drawn–out war of attrition, but when you have the best lawyers in New York on retainer and a husband who can’t even afford a bus ticket, things move. quickly. 

I sat in the courtroom, draped in white. It was a color of mourning in some cultures, a color of purity in others. For me, it was a tabula rasa–a blank page. 

Austyn sat at the defendant’s table. He looked ten years older, hollowed out and gaunt. He was thin, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal scenting smoke. He had a public defender who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. 

Evalena wasn’t there. 

She was already in a cell at Rikers Island. My legal team had pressed charges for Grand Larceny, Fraud, and Identity Theft. The total value of the items she stole was over half a million. dollars. The gavel had already fallen for her: seven years. 

The judge banged his gavel for us. 

*Judgment for the plaintiff,” he said, his voice bored. “Mr. Hester is to vacate all claims to the Miller estate. He is 

responsible for all legal fees.” 

It was over. 

I stood up, smoothing my skirt. I didn’t look at him. 

“Kimberly!” 

He lunged toward me desperately, but the bailiffs moved in like a wall of blue uniform. 

“Kimberly, please! I can fix this!” 

I kept walking. The doors swung open, and the flashbulbs of the press blinded me. I slid on my sunglasses. I was 

untouchable. 

One year later. 

I was in Sicily. The air smelled of crushed lemons and sea salt. The villa sat on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, al fortress of sun–baked stone and bougainvillea. 

Lily was down in the garden, chasing a lizard through the tall grass. She was laughing. It was a real laugh, loud and uninhibited. She had finally forgotten the sound of her father’s 

yelling. 

My phone buzzed on the patio table, vibrating against the wrought iron. 

It was a secure message from an unknown number. 

I opened it. 

It was a photo. 

I dropped the phone. It clattered onto the stone tiles. 

The image was grainy, taken in bad light, but the horror was undeniable. It showed a woman lying on a concrete floor. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing glassily. Her throat was… 

gone. 

It was Evalena. 

A text message followed, scrolling onto the screen. 

She can’t hurt you anymore. I fixed it. I did this for us. Please. I need money to get to Italy. I am coming home. 

I stared at the screen, bile rising in my throat. My stomach 

turned over. 

He was insane. He thought that murdering the mother of his child, the woman he had betrayed me for, would somehow redeem him in my eyes. He thought this was a tribute, an offering. 

He didn’t understand. In my world, we kill for business. We kill for protection. We don’t kill for desperation. 

He wasn’t a soldier. He was a butcher, messy and undisciplined. 

I picked up the phone. I didn’t reply. 

I forwarded the message to the FBI contact on my payroll. 

Then I forwarded it to the Italian Carabinieri. 

Two days later, they found him. He was in a cheap motel in New Jersey, waiting for a wire transfer that would never come. He confessed immediately. He told them he did it for love. 

The headlines called him the “Love Sick Killer.” 

I called him a memory. 

He was sentenced to death. 

I didn’t go to the sentencing. I didn’t write a victim impact 

statement. 

I was busy teaching my daughter how to ride a horse.