Chapter 8 - The Letters from London
The international postal service delivered a thick, cream-colored envelope to my Pinnacle Holdings office exactly four months after the grand reopening of Grandview Manor.
The return address was neatly handwritten in Kensington, London.
I set aside a stack of commercial lease agreements, used my letter opener to slice through the heavy paper, and pulled out three sheets of stationery covered in Emma’s familiar, looping handwriting.
Dear Victoria,
I’m writing this from a small café off High Street Kensington. It’s raining—the steady, gentle kind of rain that makes you want to stay indoors with a book and a pot of Earl Grey tea. It reminds me a bit of Chicago winters, but without the biting wind off the lake.
I’ve been living here for four months now. I finished my professional pastry certification last week, and to my absolute shock, I was offered an internship at a Michelin-starred patisserie near Notting Hill. I start on Monday.
When I think back to who I was six months ago—screaming over table runners, crying about guest lists, and letting a toxic relationship dictate my entire self-worth—it feels like I’m reading a script about a stranger. You were right about everything, Vic. I was so obsessed with building an image of success that I had completely forgotten how to build a real life.
Dad and Mom visited last weekend. We walked through Hyde Park, ate terrible fish and chips in the rain, and didn't talk about corporate acquisitions, social status, or high-society weddings even once. Dad looks... lighter. He told me he’s finally learning how to play golf without worrying about handicap scores or business networking.
I know I can never fully undo the years of being dismissive, arrogant, and cruel to you. I took your quietness for weakness and your hard work for failure because it made me feel secure in my own tiny glass castle. But you didn't just build an empire out of brick and mortar; you built an unshakeable spine.
Thank you for not fixing my wedding. It was the best, most painful gift you ever gave me.
Love, Emma
I folded the letter carefully and slid it back into its envelope.
I sat back in my leather chair, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the bustling, vibrant city below. The afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds, casting brilliant streaks of gold across the downtown skyscrapers—including three buildings my company owned, and a dozen more currently rising along the horizon.
My phone buzzed on the corner of the desk.
It was an alert from my acquisitions director: Commercial zoning approval secured for the new Minneapolis tower. Ready for your electronic signature.
I picked up my stylus, smiled to myself, and signed my name at the bottom of the digital document.
Victoria Matthews.
May you like
Chief Executive Officer.
And for the first time in her life, completely at peace with every single brick she had ever laid.
