Alyssa leaned back in the seat and whispered quietly. “I thought I needed a prince.”
I smiled faintly while watching the road. “You needed yourself,” I replied.
The months after the wedding became a time of rebuilding. Alyssa moved into the guest room at my penthouse in Chicago and spent weeks sleeping, reading, and attending therapy sessions.
She slowly rediscovered the joy of painting. Meanwhile my lawyers pursued restitution for the stolen money and cooperated with federal investigators examining Charles’s collapsed business empire.
Eventually the vineyard property transferred legally to my holding company. Instead of selling it I converted the estate into a training center for students from low income communities who wanted to learn finance, technology, and contract law.
Alyssa visited the property during the first program and stood quietly near the garden where she once nearly married Bradley. “I used to believe I needed their approval,” she said softly.
“You never did,” I answered.