My husband punched me to the kitchen floor. My 4-year-old ran to me—his grandma stood behind him with a switch, smirking.

The private jet was bigger than our entire Houston house.

Leo’s eyes went wide as we walked up the stairs.

“Mommy,” he whispered, “is this ours?”

I smiled, nodding.

“Yep. All ours. You can sit anywhere you want.”

He ran down the aisle, climbing into the biggest leather seat by the window.

“Can I have juice?” he asked, bouncing up and down.

The flight attendant, a kind woman named Maria, laughed.

“Of course, sweetie. Apple or orange?”

“Apple! With a straw!”

As Maria got his juice, I sat down beside him, looking out the window at the Houston skyline shrinking below us.

I didn’t feel sad to leave.

I didn’t feel anything but relief.

Houston had been a prison for five years.

Now I was going home.

Three hours later, we landed in Miami.

The air was warm and thick, smelling like salt and jasmine.

A line of black SUVs waited for us on the tarmac.

Mr. Hale helped Leo into the first car, then climbed in beside me.

“The estate is all ready for you,” he said.

“The housekeeper had fresh sheets put on all the beds. The chef made your favorite—lemon pasta, just like your dad used to make. And the security team has already done a full sweep of the property. No one gets in without an appointment.”

I nodded, but I was barely listening.

I was watching Leo press his face to the window, staring at the palm trees and the blue ocean as we drove.

“Mommy! Look! A flamingo!” he yelled, pointing at a bird standing in a pond by the road.

I laughed, squeezing his hand.

“I see it, baby. Isn’t it pretty?”

When we pulled up to the estate, Leo gasped.

The house was huge, white stucco with a red tile roof, sitting on 10 acres of land right on the ocean.

A fountain sprayed water in the front yard, surrounded by bright pink flowers.

“Mommy,” Leo said, his voice awestruck.

“Is this a castle?”

I smiled, tears stinging my eyes.

“Sort of. It’s our house. For as long as we want it.”

We got out of the car, and the house staff lined up to meet us.

There was Rosa, the housekeeper, who’d worked for my dad for 20 years.

She pulled me into a tight hug, crying a little.

“Clara, mi niña. It’s so good to have you home. We’ve missed you so much.”

I hugged her back, crying too.

“I missed you too, Rosa. So much.”

Then there was Marco, the chef, who shook my hand and winked at Leo.

“I hear someone likes chocolate chip cookies,” he said.

Leo’s eyes went wide.

“I do! I love them!”

Marco laughed.

“Good. I made three dozen. They’re in the kitchen, still warm.”

And then there was James, the head of security, a big man with a kind face who’d been with my dad since I was a kid.

He knelt down to Leo’s level, holding out his hand.

“Hey, buddy. I’m James. I’m gonna make sure no one bothers you and your mom, okay? I know all the best hiding spots on the property. I’ll show you later.”

Leo shook his hand solemnly.

“Okay. I’m Leo. I have a T-Rex.”

He held up the dinosaur Mr. Hale had given him.

James nodded, serious.

“Nice to meet you, Leo. That’s a very impressive T-Rex.”

That first week in Miami was a blur of new things.

Leo spent every morning running around the yard, chasing lizards and collecting seashells on the private beach.

He’d never had a yard before.

Our Houston house had had a tiny patch of dead grass, and David had never let him play outside alone.

Now he ran free, his laughter echoing across the lawn.

I spent my days in my dad’s old office, going through his things, meeting with the company’s board of directors.

I’d never wanted to run a billion-dollar company.

But it was my dad’s legacy.

And now it was mine.

I had to learn.

But even in paradise, the past wouldn’t leave us alone.

I still had nightmares.

I’d wake up screaming, my heart pounding, thinking David was standing over the bed.

Leo had night terrors too.

He’d wake up sobbing, screaming for me to make the bad man stop.

I’d climb into his bed, holding him until he fell back asleep, singing the lullaby my mom used to sing to me.

One night, after a particularly bad terror, he looked up at me, his eyes wet.

“Mommy,” he said, “are the bad people ever gonna come back?”

I kissed his forehead, smoothing his hair back from his face.

“No, baby,” I said.

“Never. James and all the security guards won’t let them. And Mr. Hale is gonna make sure they go away for a very long time. You’re safe here. I promise.”

He snuggled closer, his breathing slowing down as he fell asleep.