Chapter 9 - The Aftermath
Two months later, the first winter snow began to fall over New York City, dusting the brownstone stoops of Brooklyn with a quiet layer of white.
I had settled completely into my new life. My small apartment was filled with light, soft colors, and basic wooden furniture I had assembled myself. I spent my mornings working remotely as a freelance design consultant for small architectural firms—a career I had abandoned years ago when Roman insisted that his wife didn't need to work.
Roman’s trial was set to begin in the spring. He was facing six federal counts of wire fraud, bank fraud, and aggravated identity theft. His Midtown office had been vacated, the heavy oak desk sold off at a liquidation auction, and the renovated stone building in Lower Manhattan now bore a For Lease sign on its front glass doors.
Carla, his former secretary, met me for lunch at a small café near my neighborhood. She had found a new job with a respectable commercial law firm in Brooklyn.
"He kept calling your name for days after you left," Carla told me over tea, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck. "Even when the federal agents were walking through the office cataloging the computers, he sat in his chair staring at that blotter where the courier laid the papers. He kept saying, 'She didn't even ask me why. She didn't even give me a chance to explain.'"
"He thought explanation was a currency that could buy forgiveness," I said softly.
"He never understood you, Vivien," Carla said, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "He thought you were just part of the furniture he bought to make his life look complete."
"I know," I said, smiling faintly. "That was his biggest mistake."
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After lunch, I walked through Prospect Park. The snow was falling in steady, gentle flakes, settling on the branches of the oak trees and lining the concrete paths. I placed my hand over my stomach, feeling the slight, firm swell beneath my winter coat. Five months pregnant. A little girl, the doctor had told me last week.
She would never know the marble floors of the Grand Street penthouse, and she would never ride in a chauffeur-driven town car through Midtown. But she would grow up in a home where no one’s signature was forged, where no doors were locked with heavy brass keys, and where her mother’s name belonged to no one else.
