For seven years, my husband and his wealthy family treated me like an unpaid servant because they believed I was a penniless woman Grant had rescued from a shabby apartment.

The sun began to rise over the Atlantic Ocean, casting brilliant streaks of gold, pink, and orange across the Palm Beach coast.

I stood on the private balcony of the Grand Regency’s royal suite, holding a warm cup of coffee. The heavy velvet gown and the Valerie Emeralds had been carefully returned to their custom velvet cases, replaced by a sleek, tailored white trousersuit that felt light, clean, and entirely mine.

Marcus walked out onto the balcony, holding two tablet computers.

"It’s done," Marcus reported quietly. "Grant signed every document. The divorce is finalized under seal. Holloway Logistics is officially integrated into our transport division. His father, Arthur, has been granted a lifetime pension and full medical coverage at our private clinic in Boston—he was deeply grateful, by the way."

"And Mavis and Brielle?" I asked, sipping my coffee as the ocean breeze touched my skin.

"Mavis moved out of the estate at 4:00 a.m.," Marcus smiled dryly. "She tried to take several oil paintings, but security reminded her that every piece of art in the house was purchased by your private trust. She is currently staying at a budget motel near the highway."

"And Brielle?"

"She spent the morning attempting to call her country club friends to borrow money for her lease. Not a single person took her call. News travels fast in this town, Seraphina. Yesterday she was the darling sister of a rising corporate star; today she is the daughter of a bankrupt family."

I looked out at the ocean, feeling a strange, profound sense of peace settling over my chest. For seven years, I had carried the weight of trying to fit into a world that was far too small for me, trying to earn the love of people who measured human worth purely by cruelty and status.

"What about Grant?" I asked.

Marcus pulled up a traffic video on his tablet. "His personal luxury cars were seized by the bank at dawn to settle his personal credit card lines. He was spotted thirty minutes ago leaving his corporate office building with a single cardboard box containing his desk items."

Marcus tapped the screen, showing a live photo taken by a street photographer.

It showed Grant Holloway standing on a wet city sidewalk, wearing a wrinkled tuxedo from the night before, holding a cardboard box. He was waiting at a bus stop under the rain, his phone turned off because the corporate service line had been disconnected.

He looked small. He looked cold. He looked like the man he had always been beneath my protection.

"Should we enforce the remaining civil judgements against him?" Marcus asked. "We could have him tied up in court for the next decade."

I looked at the photo of Grant sitting on the metal bench at the bus stop, staring blankly at his muddy leather shoes.

"No," I said quietly, setting my coffee cup down. "Let him live the life he was so afraid I brought into his family. Let him learn what it truly means to start from nothing—without my money, without my silence, and without my grace."

"And Delaney Cross?"

"Her bail was set at fifty thousand dollars," Marcus replied. "She called Grant to post it, but his accounts are empty. She is currently awaiting trial."