Chapter 9 - A Year in the Light
Twelve months passed.
Time in Seattle moves in shades of gray, but spring eventually broke through the clouds, washing the city in vibrant cherry blossoms and crisp blue skies.
Aegis Tech Holdings was no longer an invisible subsidiary. Under my sole leadership as CEO, the company had gone public on NASDAQ, debuting at an astounding thirty-two billion dollars. I had redesigned our logistics software to serve global humanitarian aid corridors, partnering with the United Nations and disaster-relief organizations worldwide. I had bought a beautiful stone villa overlooking Lake Washington, filled with sunlight, modern art, and vast gardens of white hydrangeas.
I was happy. Truly, deeply happy. The phantom ache in my chest had healed, leaving behind a smooth, indestructible scar.
Sophia Reynolds had accepted a plea bargain six months prior. She was currently serving a three-year sentence at a minimum-security federal facility in California, stripped of every dollar, every designer handbag, and every shred of social standing she had spent her life chasing. Marcus Moretti had received eight years in federal prison for market manipulation and corporate espionage.
And Vincent?
Vincent had vanished from the high-society pages.
True to his word, he had resigned from corporate life entirely. He had handed over all executive power to an independent board of directors. But he hadn't wasted away in despair.
Through mutual acquaintances, I heard fragments of his new life. He had purchased a struggling industrial mechanics workshop on the south side of town—the kind of place where men worked with their bare hands, covered in grease and steel dust. He worked seventy hours a week, rebuilding diesel engines and designing low-cost agricultural machinery for developing nations. He lived in a modest flat above the workshop. He donated eighty percent of his income anonymously to maternal health clinics and women's educational shelters across the state.
He never contacted me. He respected the legal boundaries Lauren had established. But every single Monday morning, without fail, a single stem of white hydrangea—my favorite flower, the flower from my mother’s garden—was delivered to the reception desk at Aegis Tech.
There was never a note. There was never a name. Just one fresh, perfect white blossom, placed quietly on the marble desk before the sunrise.
One crisp October afternoon, precisely one year after the dinner at Le Petit Chateaux, I decided to walk through the public rose gardens near the waterfront. My security team kept a discreet distance of fifty yards, giving me space to breathe the salty Puget Sound air.
The leaves were turning brilliant shades of copper and gold. I sat on a weathered wooden bench near the water, watching the Bainbridge ferry glide across the sound.
Footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path.
May you like
I didn't turn around immediately. I listened to the steady, hesitant cadence of the footsteps until they stopped ten feet away.
"Hello, Claire."
