They Erased Their Daughter—Then the Admiral Saluted Her

One Year Later

The Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland, Maryland, was a bleak, concrete monolith surrounded by razor wire. Celeste sat in the sterile visiting room, listening to the heavy buzz of the magnetic locks.

When the metal door opened, Arthur Hawthorne walked in. He looked older, his hair now entirely white, his sharp bespoke suits replaced by faded khaki prison issue. But there was a clarity in his eyes that had been missing for over a decade.

He sat down across from her, picking up the thick plastic phone. Celeste picked up her receiver.

"You look well, Celeste," Arthur said, his voice crackling through the line. "Elizabeth tells me you've taken a new command."

"I have. It's different. Good different," she replied. She looked at her father, really looked at him. The man who had sold his soul to a monster, who had lied to her for years, but who had also stepped in front of a bomb to save her.

"Are you sleeping, Dad?"

Arthur smiled gently at the word Dad. "Like a stone. For the first time in my life, I don't have to look over my shoulder. I don't have to wonder who is listening, or what debt is coming due. Prison is... remarkably simple."

He pressed his hand against the thick, smudged glass. "I hear from Emily sometimes. She tells me the trust fund you set up with the remaining legitimate Hawthorne assets is putting kids through college. Kids whose families were hurt by the Chairman."

"It seemed like the right thing to do," Celeste said.

"It was the only thing to do," Arthur corrected. "You broke the cycle, Celeste. The Hawthorne name meant corruption for a century. You made it mean justice."

Celeste placed her own scarred hand against the glass, aligning it with his. "We all played a part in the end."