Chapter 11 - The Quiet Aftermath on Greene Street
The transition from the glass-and-steel monolith of Beaumont & Hart back to my Greenwich Village townhouse always felt like stepping through a temporal portal.
By Friday evening, the initial market reactions to our board restructuring and Nathan’s unceremonious ouster had settled into steady, positive projections. Financial news columns praised the swift elimination of hidden liabilities, and our stock value held strong. Yet, as I turned my sedan down my familiar street, the corporate noise faded away, replaced by the rustle of autumn leaves dancing across the pavement.
I unlocked the front door, kicked off my heels, and let out a long, exhausted breath.
The townhouse was warm and smelled faintly of lavender candles. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a cup of herbal tea, and looked out the small window facing the courtyard.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
It was a text from Marcus Sterling:
> Divorce settlement finalized. Nathan signed the quitclaim deed on the Hamptons house without a fight. Enjoy your weekend, Chief.
May you like
I smiled softly, locking the screen. For years, this home had been my sanctuary away from the suffocating judgment of high-society galas and corporate backstabbing. Now, it was simply home—a place where no one cared about my title, my voting bloc, or my net worth.
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