The holding company my father had mismanaged was gone, liquidated and restructured under my absolute control. Richard was stripped of his licenses and was currently awaiting trial, out on a bail I refused to pay. My mother’s phony socialite charities had been investigated and shut down. Isabella had taken a plea deal to avoid federal prison, resulting in five years of strict probation and the forced auction of her entire designer wardrobe and jewelry collection to pay restitution.
I had recovered, officially taken over as CEO of Vanguard Heritage Holdings, and moved into my grandfather’s estate.
My phone buzzed on the stone railing. It was an unknown number—likely Isabella, calling from a burner phone to beg for an allowance again.
I didn’t answer. I swiped the screen, blocked the number, and dropped the phone into my pocket.
Below me, the sprawling gardens of the estate were quiet, bathed in the silver light of the moon.
No dead weight. Just ocean breeze. At long last, those words truly belonged to me.
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