But because she wanted to recognize someone else’s before it was too late.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Lauren:
How are the marigolds?
Kiara smiled.
She sent back a photo.
Orange blossoms reaching toward sunlight.
Then she stepped back, breathing deeply, letting the warmth settle into her shoulders.
She was not defined by the staircase.
She was not defined by the trial.
She was not defined by him.
She was defined by the moment she chose to hide a flash drive in her coat.
By the moment she whispered the truth in a hospital bed.
By the moment she believed she deserved to live.
And that belief—steady, blooming, entirely hers—was something no one could ever take again.
