Chapter 18 - The Newport Gala Redux
By late spring, the crisis had passed, and the financial markets had stabilized. To mark the third anniversary of the Wellington-Collier Foundation, we hosted a magnificent charity gala at our Newport estate.
The grand ballroom was illuminated by thousands of twinkling fairy lights, reflecting off the crystal chandeliers and the dark, rolling waves of the Atlantic outside.
Among the hundreds of guests—doctors, engineers, community leaders, and former beneficiaries of our vocational programs—stood a very unexpected attendee.
Laya.
She wore a simple, elegant navy blue dress—purchased with her own hard-earned money—and stood near the edge of the terrace, chatting politely with one of our senior medical directors. When she saw me walking by with Marcus, she offered a warm, respectful wave, free of the defensive bitterness that used to define her.
I smiled back, raising my sparkling cider in a silent toast.
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"She’s really doing it," Marcus murmured, watching her interact with the guests. "Your sister actually grew up."
"It only took twenty-eight years and a total financial collapse," I laughed lightly. "Some people just need a very expensive lesson."
