“According to our trackers, he’s currently renting a basement studio in Hoboken, New Jersey. He took a commission-only job at a mid-level insurance firm. His luxury cars were repossessed by the lender last month, and The Sovereign has been officially transferred back to your personal maritime registry in Monaco.”
I slowly closed the folder.
For months, I had imagined what I would feel when everything finally collapsed—whether there would be vindictive joy, cold triumph, or satisfaction in watching a narcissist brought to his knees.
Instead, I felt an overwhelming, absolute emptiness.
Grant Vance hadn’t been destroyed by me. I hadn’t designed an elaborate revenge or laid some complicated trap. I had simply stopped supporting him. Once I withdrew my money, my influence, and my silence, the hollow facade he had created collapsed beneath its own weight. He had spent his entire life confusing my love with weakness, never understanding that the power he claimed as his own had always been an extension of mine.
“Are there any pending calls from his counsel?” I asked.
“One,” Marcus replied. “He sent a formal request asking if he could schedule a brief, supervised phone call with Lucía for her upcoming thirteenth birthday.”
I rose from my chair and walked toward the French doors leading back to the porch. Outside, my daughter was bent over her sketchbook, quietly humming to herself.
