Chapter 7 - THE TOAST THAT REMAINEDThe ballroom was nearly empty now, save for Calder, Bridget, and a few loyal friends who had stayed behind.
The heavy double doors closed shut with a final, echoing thud, sealing away the wreckage of the Rowe dynasty. The air smelled less like artificial wealth now and more like fresh air—clean, crisp, and real.
Bridget walked down from the dais, her wedding dress sweeping gracefully across the floor. She stopped in front of me, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and handed me a fresh glass of sparkling champagne that a terrified waiter had left behind on a silver tray.
“To the Admiral,” Bridget said softly, lifting her own glass.
Calder stepped up beside his bride, wrapping an arm around her waist, looking at me with a smile that carried twenty-one years of unspoken gratitude. “To Aunt Maren,” he added, his voice steady and proud. “The one who saved us all.”
I looked at the two of them—young, bright, unbroken by the toxic legacy that had poisoned generations of our bloodline.
May you like
I raised my glass, tapped it against theirs, and smiled.
The rain outside had finally stopped, and through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows of the St. Aurelia Hotel, the first golden rays of dawn were breaking across the horizon, burning away the shadows for good.
