But I knew that was a lie.
Archer had destroyed his own company. Had sabotaged everything he’d built, thrown away his entire career and reputation to make sure I won that case. To make sure those families got justice.
To give me the truth, even if it meant losing me.
“That doesn’t change what he did,” I said, more to convince myself than Sam.
“No, it doesn’t. But it means something that he’s willing to face the consequences instead of hiding from them.” Sam watched me carefully. “You’re still in love with him.”
“I’m not?—”
“Gianna.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I’m your best friend. I see how you look when someone mentions real estate development. I see how you check your phone like you’re waiting for a message you know won’t come. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words felt like a hit. “Even if I am, it doesn’t matter. What he did doesn’t get erased because he’s sorry.”
“I know. But you’re allowed to still care about him while also hating what he did. Those things can exist at the same time.”
I looked away, blinking against tears I refused to let fall. “What am I supposed to do, Sam? He killed my father. He lied to me about everything. I can’t forgive that just because I miss him.”
“I’m not saying you should. I’m saying you’re allowed to feel complicated things about complicated situations.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “And maybe, just maybe, people can actually change. Even people who’ve done terrible things.”
That night, alone in my apartment, I broke my own rule and looked him up online.
The articles painted a picture of spectacular self-destruction.
CEO Archer Devlin steps down amid company crisis. Devlin Holdings faces uncertain future after leadership shakeup. Sources say internal sabotage led to Brooklyn case collapse.
One article had a photo from some charity event he’d attended recently. He looked thinner, tired, like he hadn’t been sleeping. But there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there before—something that might have been peace.
I read every article twice, clicked through photos until I’d memorized every detail of his face.
Then I closed my laptop and told myself it didn’t matter what he was doing. His redemption tour didn’t change what he’d done.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Several weeks later, official documents arrived at my mother’s apartment.
She called confused, asking if I was expecting anything legal. I wasn’t, but the return address made my heart stop.
I went over immediately.
The envelope was thick, official, addressed to Rosa Pearson. Inside was a property deed for a building in Sunset Park—not our original building, which had been demolished years ago for luxury condos, but a newly constructed one in a different location. Same design, same number of units, rebuilt to mirror what had been destroyed. Transferred to a nonprofit housing trust with permanent affordability protections.
My hands shook as I kept reading.
There was a letter—handwritten on plain paper with no signature.
This building represents everything I did wrong. Fifty-two families displaced, lives destroyed, communities scattered. One man died because of my decisions.
I can’t bring him back. Can’t undo the years of pain my choices caused. But I could do this.
The original building is gone—demolished for the luxury condos that replaced it. But this building honors what was lost. The nonprofit trust ensures permanent protection from future displacement.
I’m not asking for forgiveness or credit. Not requesting a meeting or response. I just wanted you to know that something has been rebuilt from what I destroyed.
Your daughter taught me that harm requires action, not just apology. That understanding cost means facing it, not running from it.
Your apartment is available if you want it—same floor, same view, fully renovated. No strings, no conditions. Just a home that should never have been taken from you.
