Chapter 5 - THE ASHES OF CALLAWAY AND THE RISING SUN
Six months later.
The early morning sun broke over the harbor, casting a brilliant, golden glow across the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of my new corner office on the forty-second floor of the Artemis Capital Building.
The room smelled of fresh coffee and white lilies. On the wall behind my desk hung a framed photograph taken three weeks ago: me standing on the steps of the New York Stock Exchange, ringing the opening bell to mark the successful public launch of Artemis Capital Group.
Beside it sat a smaller, silver-framed photo: four-month-old Marlo, sitting on a velvet blanket in the park, laughing at a golden retriever, her wide dark eyes filled with pure, untainted joy.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," I said, setting down my morning cup of green tea.
My executive assistant—a sharp, brilliant young woman named Hannah whom I had hired away from my old auditing firm—walked into the room, holding a tablet and a small stack of mail.
"Good morning, Miss Reed," Hannah said warmly. "The quarterly reports from the European division just came in. We're up fourteen percent over our initial projections."
"Excellent," I smiled. "File them for the nine-thirty strategy meeting."
"Also," Hannah added, her tone softening slightly as she set a thin yellow envelope on my desk, "this was delivered by courier from the family court clerk’s office ten minutes ago. It's the final decree."
I reached out and picked up the envelope.
Inside were the finalized, court-stamped divorce papers dissolving the marriage of Sable Reed and Weston Callaway.
Attached to the back was the formal custody order: absolute, non-negotiable legal and physical custody granted exclusively to Sable Reed, with no visitation rights granted to Weston Callaway unless approved by a court-appointed child psychologist after eighteen months of mandatory therapy.
I looked at the judge's sharp black signature at the bottom of the page.
It was over. Completely, irrevocably over.
"How is the Callaway family doing?" I asked quietly, looking out the window toward the harbor.
Hannah sighed softly, reviewing the notes on her tablet. "Preston Callaway sold his estate in Greenwich last week to pay off his outstanding federal tax penalties. He and Adele have relocated to a small two-bedroom condominium in Florida. From what I understand, they don't speak to Weston anymore. They blame him for losing the company."
"And Weston?"
"He’s working as an entry-level compliance analyst at a midsize firm in New Jersey," Hannah said. "His license was suspended for six months by the financial ethics board. My sources say he lives alone in a small rented apartment near the train station. He tried to send another package for Marlo last Friday—a stuffed bear—but our legal team returned it to sender per the terms of the protective order."
"And Camille?"
"She accepted a plea bargain last month," Hannah replied. "Two years probation, full restitution of the funds she misappropriated, and mandatory parental supervision classes. Little Harrison is currently living with his grandmother in Boston."
I nodded slowly. Justice wasn't always loud or dramatic; sometimes it was simply the quiet, relentless grinding of reality catching up with people who believed they were immune to consequences.
"Thank you, Hannah," I said softly. "You can take the rest of the morning to prepare for the board meeting."
"Yes, Miss Reed." Hannah smiled, turning and stepping quietly out of the office, closing the heavy glass door behind her.
I sat back in my leather chair, holding the final divorce decree in my hands.
Four years ago, I had stepped into Weston Callaway’s world believing I was entering a fairytale—a story of a prince who loved a simple girl for who she was. I had spent four years swallowing small doubts, ignoring subtle red flags, and convincing myself that silence was just old-money manners.
And six months ago, in a cold, sterile hospital room two hours after giving birth, that fairytale had exploded into poison.
Weston had looked at me while I was at my most vulnerable—sore, bleeding, and holding his newborn daughter—and had tried to crush my spirit with two sentences: "I already have a son with another woman. I'm not putting my name on this baby."
He had thought I was weak. He had thought that because I was a woman, a mother, and an auditor, I would fold under the weight of his family’s wealth and power.
He had forgotten that the most dangerous person in the world is a mother who has nothing left to lose, and everything to protect.
A soft sound came from the small playpen set up near the window.
I stood up, walked around my massive desk, and looked down at my daughter. Marlo was sitting up on her velvet blanket, holding a soft wooden ring, her small face lighting up with a radiant, toothless smile the moment she saw me.
I reached down, lifted her gently into my arms, and held her close against my chest, breathing in the sweet, clean scent of baby powder and fresh sunshine.
I looked out at the vast, shining skyline of the city—a skyline where the name Callaway had once reigned supreme, but where the name Artemis now burned bright and clean against the morning sky.
May you like
I kissed Marlo’s soft, warm forehead.
"We made it, sweetie," I whispered to her as the golden sunlight flooded the office, washing away the last lingering shadows of the past forever. "We made it."
