“I was at home. You have no proof.”
“We’ll find it.”
“Keep looking.”
They let him go. They kept digging, checking his alibi. Everything matched perfectly. There were no leads. A month later, the case was closed for ‘lack of evidence.’
Gerald Sterling tried to push from above, paid off journalists. It was useless. Out of desperation and powerlessness, he started to drink.
First in the evenings, then all day long. He stopped showing up at work. In August, he was quietly removed from his position as CEO.
The estate grew empty. His wife left him, unable to handle the drinking. Sterling was alone in a massive house with a bottle and a photo of his son. At night he would scream, and by morning he’d fall into a heavy sleep.
By September, he was a wreck. The doctors warned him: a little more, and the damage would be permanent. But Sterling didn’t care. His life had lost its meaning.
Vic heard about it from Charlie.
“Sterling has hit rock bottom,” Charlie said. “Saw him recently. He looks terrible.”
Vic nodded. The revenge was complete. Sterling was punished worse than by death.
“How’s Ellie?” Charlie asked.
“The doctors say we have to wait.”
“Vic, you did everything you could. It’s out of your hands now.”
Vic stood up:
“No, it’s not. I’ll be there. Every day. Until she wakes up.”
He went to see Ellie every day. He read the newspapers out loud, talked about the weather. The doctors said the brain in a coma could still process sound.
On September 25th, as he sat by her bed, it happened. Ellie’s fingers gave a tiny twitch. Vic froze.
The fingers moved again. Her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. Her eyes focused on her father’s face.
“Da… dad…” she rasped.
Vic couldn’t hold back the tears. For the first time in a decade. He pressed her hand to his lips:
“Ellie, you’re back.”
The doctors rushed in. Ellie had come out of the coma. It was a long road to recovery, but she was alive.
The first few days were hard. Ellie couldn’t speak and was fed through a tube. Months of rehab lay ahead: learning to walk, to swallow, to control her movements.
Vic never left her side. He rented a small room near the hospital. He fed her with a spoon, supported her.
“Don’t rush,” he told her. “You’ll get there. The main thing is you’re here.”
Ellie looked at him curiously. He’d aged, but his eyes were warm.
“What happened? Why am I here?” she asked one day.
The doctors warned him: the trauma might have erased her memory.
“You got very sick,” Vic lied gently. “But you’re getting better now.”
“And those people… I had nightmares.”
“Forget them. It’s over. It’ll never happen again.”
She didn’t ask any more questions. She was too weak. Vic was grateful she didn’t remember the details.
October was spent in physical therapy. The therapist taught Ellie how to walk again. The first steps were taken with tears. Vic would lift her up and whisper:
“We don’t give up.”
By November, Ellie was walking with a cane. The doctors were amazed at the speed of her recovery. Vic knew why: she had his character. A fighter.
A psychologist worked with her on the PTSD. Ellie was afraid of loud noises, avoided strangers.
“The main thing is a sense of security,” the doctor told Vic. “You’re doing a great job.”
One day, looking out the window at the first snow, Ellie said:
