The drive from the Whitfield estate back to the downtown Grandview Hotel took twenty-two minutes. For twenty-two minutes, neither Catherine nor I spoke.

Friday afternoon was crisp and clear.

Catherine, Jennifer, and I sat on the private terrace of our home—we had finally checked out of the Grandview Hotel and returned to our house in the suburbs. The gardens had been professionally cleaned; the ruined white roses where Catherine had fallen were replaced with fresh, vibrant perennials, and the stone pathway was spotless.

Arthur Miller arrived around 3:00 PM carrying a thick leather briefcase containing the final legal seals of our emancipation.

“It’s all done, Ray,” Arthur said, setting the briefcase on the outdoor glass table and pulling out a final set of signed documents. “Paul Prescott signed over the development assets without a fight. His company is effectively a ghost corporation now. And as for Trevor...”

Arthur paused, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“What about Trevor?” Catherine asked quietly, leaning forward in her chair.

“He was served with formal notice of total disinheritance and corporate severance this morning at his motel,” Arthur explained, sliding a paper across the table. “Furthermore, Madison packed her bags and left him yesterday afternoon. She’s currently staying with an aunt across town, and her lawyer has already filed for an emergency annulment citing fraud and financial misrepresentation.”

A bitter, ironic chuckle escaped my lips. “An annulment? She didn't even last six days as a Mrs.”

“Gold-diggers rarely do when the gold runs out,” Arthur noted grimly. “Trevor tried to call my office three times today begging for an appointment with you. I told him you were unavailable permanently.”

“Did he say anything else?” Jennifer asked, her eyes sharp.

“Only that he realizes now what he lost,” Arthur said. “He said he wants to apologize to his mother.”

Catherine looked down at her hands, a flicker of maternal sorrow passing across her face. She looked at me, silently asking the question every mother asks when her child is starving.

I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.

“No, Catherine,” I said firmly. “He doesn't want to apologize to you. He wants his credit cards back. He wants his car back. He wants his old life back where he never had to face the consequences of being a cruel, entitled coward.”