I brought flowers and Paris flight tickets to the office to surprise my husband for Valentine's Day. But the whole company was celebrating his engagement to the female CEO.

Three months later, the spring flowers had bloomed across the landscaped gardens of the Whitmore estate in Oakridge.

The house had been completely renovated. The cold, sterile grey walls that Julian had preferred were repainted in warm, natural tones of cream and pale green. The heavy, ostentatious furniture was replaced with comfortable, classic pieces, and my father’s old wooden workbench—which had sat in a dusty shed behind the garage for ten years—was restored and placed in the study overlooking the lawn.

It was a Saturday afternoon, bright and warm.

I sat at the wooden desk in my study, reviewing the Q2 operational reports for Whitmore Dynamics.

Under Mr. Henderson’s interim leadership and my oversight as Chairwoman, the company had secured two new international manufacturing contracts, increasing our quarterly revenue by eighteen percent. The state prosecutor had finalized the corporate tax settlement, and Julian Vance had entered a formal guilty plea for secondary tax evasion, receiving a four-year suspended sentence along with three thousand hours of mandatory community service and complete asset restitution order.

Gwen Miller’s consulting firm had filed for bankruptcy, and she had moved back to Georgia after paying a substantial civil penalty to avoid trial.

A soft knock sounded on the open door of my study.

Miriam Shaw walked in, wearing a casual light blue dress, carrying a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses.

"You're working on a Saturday again, Chairwoman," Miriam teased gently, setting the glasses down on the corner of the restored workbench.

I laughed, closing the leather folder in front of me. "I'm not working, Miriam. I'm reading good news. There's a big difference."

Miriam poured two glasses of wine, handing one to me as she leaned against the edge of the desk. "Julian’s lawyer called my office yesterday afternoon."

I raised an eyebrow slightly, taking a sip of the wine. "Oh? What did Peter want this time?"

"He was asking if you would consider waiving the final ten thousand dollars of court legal costs owed to the primary trust," Miriam said. "He says Julian is working as a night manager at a logistics warehouse in South Carolina and living in a small studio apartment."

I looked out the window at the blooming magnolia trees near the driveway, remembering the man who had stood beneath silver banners three months ago, holding up a teardrop diamond while two hundred people cheered his name.

"Tell Peter that the court order stands," I said quietly, setting my glass down. "Julian was very particular about enforcing contractual obligations when he worked here. He should appreciate the consistency."