Lena stood on the sprawling, private balcony of her luxury penthouse. The air was biting and cold, but she didn’t shiver. She wore a thick, incredibly soft, custom-made cashmere coat that kept her perfectly insulated against the elements.
She looked out over the glittering skyline that her grandfather-in-law’s company—which was now, officially and legally, her company—had helped build. She commanded this city from the clouds.
In her gloved hand, she held Adrian’s unopened prison letter.
It had been forwarded to her secure private address despite her legal team’s numerous blocks. She looked at his erratic, desperate handwriting, smudged by the moisture in the air.
For a brief, fleeting second, she remembered the terror of sitting in a freezing studio apartment, watering down cheap formula to make it last the week, terrified that she and her baby would freeze to death on the streets.
But as she held the letter, she didn’t feel a pang of lingering trauma. She didn’t feel a surge of vindictive, blinding anger. She didn’t wonder if the man in the cell was truly sorry. She felt absolutely, profoundly nothing.
It was the vast, untouchable, beautiful emptiness one feels when looking at a complete stranger.
Adrian had failed entirely. He had not broken her. He had not taken her son. He had simply handed her the keys to an empire and locked himself in a cage.
