She patted my arm.
.webp)
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve been waiting three years to say those things. It felt wonderful.”
Despite everything, I laughed. It came out raw and broken, but it was real.
“What happens now?”
Marcus answered, his voice measured and professional.
“The district attorney’s office will proceed with their investigation. Mrs. Harrison has provided substantial documentation. Whether charges are filed will depend on their review, but the evidence is compelling.”
“And Victoria?”
Eleanor’s face softened with something that might have been grief or might have been relief. It was hard to tell.
“That’s up to the courts now. I’ve done what I needed to do. The rest is out of my hands.”
I thought about my mother, still in that ballroom, surrounded by the people she’d spent her life trying to impress, watching everything she’d built crumble. Part of me felt a savage satisfaction, but a larger part just felt tired.
“I’m not doing this for revenge,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I was telling them or myself. “I’m not doing it to punish her.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed. “You’re doing it because some things can’t be allowed to continue. Some lies can’t be permitted to stand.”
She looked at me with those sharp, knowing eyes.
“There’s no cruelty in telling the truth, Paige. There’s only clarity.”
A town car pulled up to the curb. Marcus had arranged it while we were inside.
“I should get your grandmother back to Brook Haven,” he said. “It’s been a long evening.”
Eleanor waved a dismissive hand.
“I’m not fragile, Marcus. But yes, I am tired.”
She turned to me.
“Come visit tomorrow. We have a great deal to talk about, and I want to hear how your design business is going. Really hear. Not the polished version you give me.”
“I’ll be there.”
She hugged me. A real hug this time, not the performative embrace Victoria had given me on that stage. I held on longer than I probably should have.
“I love you, my sweet girl,” she murmured.
“I love you too, Grandma.”
She climbed into the car with Marcus’s assistance. I watched as it pulled away, disappearing into the Boston night.
I stood alone on the sidewalk for a long time.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Daniel Reeves.
Just saw the Globe’s legal-beat guy tweet something cryptic about a prominent Boston attorney. Was that—
I typed back:
I’ll explain later. Thank you for everything.
Another text.
This one from a number I didn’t recognize.
Paige, it’s Jennifer Thompson from Becker Legal. We were at the wedding. I owe you an apology. I believed things I shouldn’t have. If you’re ever interested in discussing design work for our new office, please call me.
I stared at the screen.
Jennifer Thompson, one of the women I’d seen whispering with Patricia Holloway earlier that evening, now offering me business.
