My phone buzzed. It was a final message from Mark’s lawyer, a desperate, pathetic plea for a settlement, claiming “emotional distress” and “unjust enrichment.”
I didn’t even read the whole thing. I simply deleted the thread, blocked the number, and took a sip of a very expensive vintage wine—one I had picked out, in a home I had built, for a woman who finally knew her own worth.
The silence in my penthouse is absolute. And for the first time in my life, it doesn’t feel lonely. It feels like victory.
The architect has finally finished her masterpiece. And I am the only one with the keys.
