MY HUSBAND RAISED HIS CHAMPAGNE GLASS AND TOLD ME TO DIE QUIETLY, COMPLETELY CERTAIN HE WAS READING MY CANCER RESULTS—UNTIL I SAID, “CHECK THE PATIENT’S NAME, YOU IDIOT.”

By late spring, construction on the waterfront project officially broke ground.

I stood on the windswept bank of the Chicago River, wearing a hard hat and high-visibility safety vest, watching heavy machinery move earth to lay the deep, unyielding concrete foundations of the central pavilion.

The morning sun reflected off the glassy surface of the water, casting warm, golden ripples across the rising steel columns.

My lead site engineer, a sharp young structural specialist named David, walked up beside me holding a revised schematics tablet.

“Pouring the primary load-bearing columns today, Samantha,” David said, handing me the digital manifest. “Everything is checking out 5% above structural safety margins. This thing isn't going anywhere, even in a century storm.”

“Good,” I nodded, reviewing the stress metrics with a critical, experienced eye. “Never skimp on the foundation, David. A building is only as strong as what you put beneath the surface when nobody is watching.”

He smiled, tapping the tablet. “Learned that from the best.”

As David walked back toward the construction crew, I lingered for a moment by the edge of the river.

I reached into the pocket of my blazer and pulled out an old, worn brass key—the key to Suite 801, the secret drafting room where I had gone the night my old life ended. I didn't need it anymore; the studio had long since been packed up and moved into our permanent headquarters.

With a smooth, effortless motion, I tossed the brass key in a high arc.