Chapter 10 - The Unsigned Page
The Evanston townhouse had never looked so bright.
When we walked through the front door that evening, the heavy pall of silence that had hung over the halls for three years was gone. The air didn't smell like old paper and distance; it smelled like jasmine, rain, and the faint, comforting aroma of roasted chicory coming from the kitchen.
Alina kicked off her heels by the entryway, dropping her briefcase onto the console table where she used to leave her keys like a guest in her own home.
I walked into my study, my boots clicking against the hardwood floor.
The twenty-seven pages of the divorce agreement were still sitting on the edge of my oak desk, held down by their neat, yellow tabs. The signature lines at the bottom of page twenty-seven were still pristine, entirely blank, untouched by ink.
I picked up the entire folder, walked over to the modern stone fireplace where a quiet fire was already crackling, and tossed the yellow-tabbed papers straight into the flames.
The dry paper caught instantly, curling, blackening, and turning to ash in a matter of seconds.
Alina leaned against the study doorframe, watching the fire consume the last tangible remnant of our misunderstanding. Her arms were crossed lightly over her chest, a quiet, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Wasteful,” she teased softly. “Those were expensive legal fees.”
“Cheapest investment I’ve ever made,” I replied, turning away from the fire and walking across the room toward her.
She didn't move away. She stood her ground as I closed the distance between us, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her flush against my chest. Her hands found their way around my neck, her fingers tangling softly in the hair at the nape of my neck.
“So,” Alina whispered, her breath warm against my collarbone. “What happens now, billionaire? No board meetings to escape, no fraudulent audits to untangle, no corporate conspiracies to unwind.”
“Now,” I said, resting my forehead gently against hers, “we start over.”
“Without any secrets?” she asked, her blue eyes searching mine for any trace of the old barriers.
“Without a single one.”
We stayed like that for a long time, standing before the fire as the Chicago night settled over the lake outside, letting the silence between us finally mean peace instead of distance.
Later that night, long after the fire had died down to glowing embers and the house was wrapped in a deep, unbroken quiet, my phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
I didn't reach for it immediately. I was watching Alina sleep, her head resting peacefully on my shoulder, her breathing steady and deep.
The phone buzzed a second time.
May you like
Carefully, so as not to wake her, I reached over and picked up the screen. It was an automated notification from Moretti Global’s international legal database, flagging an archived subsidiary in Geneva that had been quietly reactivated forty-eight hours ago—not by Arthur Sterling, but by a numbered account registered under my father’s personal private trust, bearing a single authorization code that had only been activated once before.
The day my father’s yacht went down.
