Chapter 7 - THE ASHES OF THE ANCESTORS AND THE COLD FLIGHT OF RETRIBUTION
The hum of the jet engines felt like a funeral dirge,
a low,
vibrating reminder of the fire that had consumed my past.
I stared out the window of the Gulfstream,
watching the Atlantic Ocean stretch beneath us like a sheet of hammered lead,
cold and unforgiving.
My hand was pressed so hard against my stomach that I could feel the individual beats of my heart,
racing in a desperate,
jagged rhythm.
Dominic sat across from me,
his face a mask of controlled fury,
his laptop glowing with the latest updates from the ground in Switzerland.
“Genevieve is safe,”
he said,
his voice a low rasp that barely cut through the sound of the air conditioning.
“She was out at the market when the fire started.”
“The local authorities are calling it an electrical fault,”
“but we know better.”
I didn't answer immediately.
The image of the Château,
the gray stone that had stood for a century,
now blackened and hollow,
burned in my mind’s eye.
It wasn't just a house.
It was the library where my father taught me about the stars.
It was the gardens where I had walked when I first learned I was pregnant,
dreaming of a future that was now a pile of soot and ash.
Preston hadn't just attacked a building.
He had attempted to erase the very foundation of who I was.
“He thinks he destroyed the evidence,”
I said,
my voice sounding hollow,
even to my own ears.
“He thinks the physical records in the library were the only thing that could tie him to the patents.”
“He’s playing an old man’s game in a digital world,”
Dominic replied,
tapping the silver thumb drive that sat on the table between us.
“This drive doesn't just have ledgers.”
“It has the geolocation data for the burner phones he used.”
“It has the encrypted messages sent from the penthouse IP address.”
“He’s finished,
Evelyn.”
“But he doesn't know it yet.”
I leaned back into the leather seat,
closing my eyes,
but all I could see was Preston’s face.
The way he looked when he was charming a donor.
The way he looked when he was lying to me about his whereabouts.
The way he must have looked when he gave the order to burn my home.
A cold,
sharp clarity settled over me,
a sensation more chilling than the Alpine air I had left behind.
I wasn't just mourning a house.
I was mourning the girl who thought love could fix a man like him.
“How long until we land?”
I asked.
“Four hours,”
Dominic said.
“The lawyers are meeting us at a private hangar in Teterboro.”
“The District Attorney’s office has already been briefed on the new evidence.”
“They’re waiting for your formal deposition to sign the arrest warrants.”
I nodded,
feeling a strange sense of detachment.
The drama of the last few days had pushed me past the point of tears.
I was in the middle of a storm,
and the only way out was to become the storm itself.
I thought about the baby,
my son,
who would never know the Château.
He would never see the portraits of his great-grandparents hanging in the hall.
He would never run through the vineyards in the summer.
Preston had stolen that from him before he was even born.
The anger flared up again,
hot and bright,
giving me the strength I needed to keep my head up.
“Dominic,”
I said,
opening my eyes.
“I don't want him just arrested.”
“I want him to see it coming.”
“I want him to be in the penthouse when the world collapses.”
Dominic looked at me,
a flicker of respect—and perhaps a little fear—shining in his eyes.
“He’s planning a press conference for tomorrow morning,”
Dominic said.
“He’s going to announce the 'restructuring' of the foundation.”
“He’s going to paint you as the unstable wife who fled to Europe while he stayed behind to save the charity.”
I felt a grim smile tug at the corners of my mouth.
“Then we’ll give him a press conference he’ll never forget.”
“We’ll let him stand at the podium.”
“We’ll let him tell his lies.”
“And then I’ll walk into the room.”
The rest of the flight passed in a blur of preparation.
We went through every document on the drive,
building a timeline of betrayal that was undeniable.
Every dollar Preston had stolen,
every patent he had sold,
every night he had spent with Brielle while I was sick with morning sickness—it was all there.
It was a map of a man’s greed,
and it led straight to a prison cell.
As the plane began its descent over the shimmering lights of New Jersey,
I looked at my reflection in the window.
The exhaustion was visible,
the dark circles under my eyes a testament to the sleepless nights.
But my gaze was steady.
The Hart heiress was no longer hiding in the mountains.
She was coming home to claim what was hers.
And the man who had worn another woman’s lipstick to her dinner table was about to find out that some debts can only be paid in ruin.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt,
a physical period at the end of this chapter of my life.
“Welcome back to New York,
Evelyn,”
Dominic said softly.
I stood up,
straightening my coat over my belly.
“Let’s go,
Dominic.”
“We have a legacy to protect.”
The doors opened,
and the damp,
salty air of the coast rushed in.
It smelled like gasoline,
money,
and the impending fall of a titan.
I stepped onto the stairs,
the wind whipping my hair,
and for the first time in a week,
I felt like I could breathe.
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The hunt was over.
The execution was about to begin.
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