The impact spun me sideways before my mind even registered the blow. Six crystal flutes shattered against the Italian marble, sending Moët foaming over the polished stone like a burst artery.

The fallout was catastrophic, dominating global headlines for three solid weeks.

Richard Sinclair was denied bail, transferred directly from Bellevue Hospital’s prison ward to the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Marcus Bennett was remanded into federal custody, facing up to fifteen years for perjury and conspiracy.

With Richard locked away, the board of directors of Sinclair Global Holdings initiated an emergency internal audit. Within forty-eight hours, they uncovered twenty-five years of hidden bank accounts, offshore shell corporations, and conclusive evidence proving the original patent theft from Dr. Evelyn Foster.

Vanessa Sinclair’s socialite empire vanished overnight.

Every luxury brand dropped her sponsorships. Her bank accounts were frozen under federal asset forfeiture laws. In a final, desperate attempt to save face, she tried to storm the Romano Tower lobby, only to be escorted off the premises by building security while paparazzi cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing her sobbing in a rumpled designer coat.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the Romano estate in Riverdale, the world felt entirely different.

I sat on the sun-drenched terrace, looking out over the Hudson River. On the glass table rested a certified court decree signed by a federal magistrate:

Abigail Foster is hereby recognized as the sole surviving heir of Dr. Evelyn Foster, granting her forty-eight percent of the voting shares and retroactive royalties of Sinclair Global Holdings, totaling one point four billion dollars.

"You're quiet," Matteo said, stepping out onto the terrace. He wore a simple cashmere sweater and dark slacks, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen him. He handed me a cup of warm mint tea and pulled up a chair beside mine.

"I was thinking about my mother," I said, a tear slipping down my cheek, catching the morning light. "She spent the last years of her life counting pennies at a laundromat so I could have school supplies. She never got to see this."

"She saw it, Abigail," Matteo said softly, reaching out to clasp my hand. His touch was warm, steady, and filled with a tenderness that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "She knew that truth has a way of surfacing, no matter how deep men try to bury it. She gave you the strength to stand tall in that ballroom."

I looked down at our joined hands. "What happens to the company now?"

"The board voted this morning," Matteo replied with a faint smile. "They voted to rebrand the entire pharmaceutical enterprise as The Foster Medical Institute. And they are requesting that the majority shareholder take her seat as Chairwoman of the Board."

I laughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. "Me? Matteo, I was a catering waitress three weeks ago."

"You are Evelyn Foster’s daughter," he said fiercely, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute conviction. "You have her brilliant mind, her resilience, and a heart that didn't hesitate to empty its own veins to save a stranger on a highway. There is no one on this earth more qualified to lead that company than you."

I leaned forward, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of everything he had done for me. "I don't know how to thank you, Matteo. Words aren't enough."

Matteo leaned in closer, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes with raw honesty.

"I didn't do this for thanks, Abigail," he murmured, his thumb gently caressing the back of my hand. "I did it because from the second I looked into your eyes on that ballroom floor, I knew my life would never be complete without you in it."

Before I could reply, a sudden, sharp tightening seized my abdomen.