Chapter 5 - The Reconstruction
Six months later.
The spring air was warm and smelled of fresh rain, a stark contrast to the suffocating chill of that November night. I stood on the balcony of my new apartment, overlooking the downtown skyline. It wasn't a mansion, and it didn't have polished hardwood floors that required hours of mopping before dawn. But it was mine. Bought and paid for with my own money.
The divorce had been finalized in record time. Because Kevin was facing a combined thirty years in federal and state prison, his legal team had practically begged me to sign a settlement just to keep me from testifying further at his criminal trial. I walked away with the entirety of our joint savings account—money I had largely contributed to anyway—and full ownership of the assets he hadn't managed to hide in his mother's fraudulent accounts.
Kevin was currently serving a twelve-year sentence at a medium-security correctional facility. His mother and sister had avoided prison time by turning state’s evidence against him, but the financial restitution orders had completely bankrupt them. Barbara had been forced to sell her beloved suburban home and was now living in a tiny, rented studio apartment, working as a greeter at a department store—the exact kind of "low-class retail job" she used to mock me for. Susan had moved out of state, completely alienated from the high-society circles she had spent her life trying to impress.
My phone buzzed in my hand. It was an email notification.
From: Arthur Vance Subject: Chief Financial Officer Appointment
I opened it. The contract was attached. After the scandal, the Vance Philanthropic Endowment needed a complete structural overhaul. Eleanor Vance had personally approached me three months ago, asking if I would manage their entire financial logistics and operational budget. I had accepted the temporary consulting role, and today, they were making it permanent. My salary was triple what Kevin had ever made at the firm.
I smiled, a genuine, deep smile that reached my eyes. The faint, fading scar on the left side of my jaw—a tiny reminder of the night the tower fell—didn't hurt anymore. It felt like a badge of survival.
I walked inside, sat at my desk, and began reviewing the Q2 budget models. I loved the numbers. Numbers didn't lie. Numbers didn't hide behind expensive cologne and pressed shirts. Numbers, if you looked at them closely enough, always revealed exactly who a person was.
The doorbell to my apartment rang.
My heart didn't skip a beat. I didn't feel that old, familiar knot of dread in my stomach. I walked to the door calmly and opened it.
It was a delivery courier holding a massive bouquet of yellow roses—my favorite.
"Sarah Hamilton?" the courier asked.
"Just Sarah Belmont," I corrected him with a smile, using my maternal grandmother's name. I had legally changed it the day the divorce papers were stamped. "Thank you."
I took the flowers, brought them inside, and set them on the kitchen island. I reached for the card nestled inside the blooms. I expected it to be from Eleanor or Arthur, celebrating the new job offer.
I opened the envelope and pulled out the small white card.
There were only six words written on it, in a neat, elegant handwriting I didn't recognize:
May you like
“You handled the small fish beautifully.”
I froze. The smile slid off my face.
