Chapter 172
Chapter 172
She pried up the floorboard, placed the envelope with the document fragments inside, then lowered the board back into place, restoring everything exactly as it had been.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels in the middle of the attic floor and looked around the small space.
Sunlight slanted in through the skylight overhead, falling across the piles of old belongings. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams.
She spoke softly. "Mentor, Hawk's been arrested. I got the blueprints back—most of them are intact. I put them back where they belong. Once the museum paperwork goes through, I'll donate them. You can rest easy now."
No one answered. Only the wind slipped through the skylight, rustling the pages of an old book in the corner with a soft, papery whisper.
Arabella sat in the attic for a long time before she finally stood, brushed the dust from her pants, and climbed back down the ladder.
Cornelius was waiting in the living room downstairs. When he saw her come down, he didn't ask questions. He just said, "Let's go. I'll take you to get something to eat."
Arabella nodded and followed him out of the old house.
She locked the door, slipped the key into her pocket, and took one last look at the old house standing quietly in the fading sunset. Then she turned and got in the car.
As the car pulled away, Arabella leaned back in the passenger seat, her gaze drifting over the streetscape rushing past the window. She didn't speak.
Cornelius didn't either. He drove in silence, occasionally glancing over at her when they stopped at a red light. Her expression was calm, so he left her alone.
The car finally pulled up in front of an unassuming roadside diner. Cornelius killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "This place makes decent oatmeal porridge. Light on the stomach—good for you right now."
Arabella glanced down at the dried bloodstain on her knee. She didn't argue. She pushed open the door and got out.
They walked inside and found a table by the window.
Cornelius ordered two bowls of oatmeal porridge and a few small sides. After handing the menu back to the waitress, he picked up his water glass, took a sip, and looked at Arabella. "When are you planning to donate the blueprints?"
"Once the museum paperwork is done."
Arabella pressed her lips together. "I already contacted the director this afternoon. He said the approval process should take about a week."
Cornelius nodded and let it go.
Arabella lowered her head and ate her porridge. The warm, smooth oats slid down her throat, and the tension she'd been carrying all day loosened just a fraction.
She set her spoon down and said suddenly, "I want to see Amara."
Cornelius looked up. "Why?"
"No particular reason." Arabella shook her head. "I just want to see what she looks like now."
Cornelius was quiet for a few seconds. He didn't object. "I'll arrange it."
---
The next morning, Arabella sat in the visitation room of the detention center.
Amara walked in wearing a gray detention uniform, her hair cut short and pulled back loosely with a black elastic.
No makeup. Sallow skin. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes stood out starkly under the fluorescent lights.
She looked at least five years older than Arabella remembered. Whatever fire had once driven her was gone, leaving behind only a hollow shell.
She sat down in the metal chair across the table and glanced at Arabella, the corner of her mouth twisting into a mocking smirk. "What are you doing here? Come to gloat?"
Arabella didn't take the bait. She just looked at her, her gaze steady. "Dahlia's doing fine."
Amara's fingers twitched slightly. She said nothing.
"She's going abroad next month."
Arabella's expression was complicated.
"She chose to leave the Visconti Villa. Start over on her own."
Amara lowered her head. She was silent for a long time. Then she let out a quiet laugh.
It was low, laced with a bitterness that defied description.
"She's stronger than I ever was."
She looked up at Arabella, her eyes heavy with tangled emotion.
"When I was her age, I thought I could control everything. Turns out I couldn't control a damn thing."
Arabella didn't respond. She just listened.
Amara leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, her voice almost like she was talking to herself.
"The first time I met Hawk, he was barely in his twenties. Full of ambition. He told me he'd take me along to do something big. I believed him. Followed him step by step, all the way here. All the way to this place."
She looked down at the cold handcuffs on her wrists and laughed again. "You were right. I took a wrong turn from the very beginning."
Arabella was silent for a few seconds, then stood. "I'm leaving."
Amara didn't look up. But as Arabella turned to go, she said, "Tell Dahlia I'm sorry."
Arabella's step faltered for just a beat. She didn't turn around. She pushed through the door and walked out.
---
Three days later, Heath's condition had stabilized enough for him to sit up partway in bed.
The lawyer arrived at the hospital room with the drafted divorce papers—three copies, laid out on the small tray table in front of Heath.
Heath wasn't wearing his glasses. He squinted at the pages for a long time, turning them one by one, reading every single line with care.
The room was quiet. Only the rustle of turning pages and the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Heath finished the last page. He was silent for a moment. Then he picked up the pen and signed his name on every copy.
His strokes trembled, but each one pressed hard—so hard the pen tip nearly punctured the paper.
When he was done, he set the pen down, leaned back against the pillows, and let out a long, slow breath. Like a stone he'd carried on his chest for years had finally been lifted.
After a stretch of silence, he spoke to the lawyer. "Take them to the detention center. Have her sign."
The lawyer nodded, gathered the documents, and left the room.
After the door closed, Heath lay alone in bed, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were vacant.
When Ulysses pushed the door open, he found his father gazing blankly upward. He said nothing. He just walked to the window and pulled the curtains back a little wider, letting more sunlight in.
"Dad, the weather's nice today."
Heath didn't answer. A long time passed before he spoke. "Ulysses, the things I did before—I owe you an apology."
Ulysses's hand stilled on the curtain. He didn't turn around. His voice was barely audible. "It's in the past."
---
On Ulysses's first day as acting president of the Visconti Group, he called a company-wide leadership meeting.
The conference room was packed. Some faces were ones he saw regularly around the office. Others he'd only ever known as names on documents.
Every pair of eyes was on him, carrying every shade of emotion imaginable. Most of all, doubt.
Ulysses sat at the head of the conference table in a dark suit, his tie knotted with impeccable precision.