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"You said you gave me your name, Harrison," Victoria said, her voice dropping into a quiet, absolute certainty. "You can have it back. I am who I am not because of your last name. And I am done with you."
Harrison’s gaze dropped to the raised seal from the State of New York, tracking the formal lines of the decree. The air stalled in his throat, his eyes narrowing to sharp slits as he absorbed the petition.
He stood paralyzed. Threatening ruin, sabotage, or disgrace gained him nothing, because Victoria no longer guarded anything he could touch. She had cut the cord to his empire herself, abandoning his boardrooms and leaving him to realize she was no longer in the ring.
Victoria turned around.
"Victoria!" Harrison shouted, his voice cracking with a desperate, furious need to retain control. "You walk out that door, you have nothing! You are a nobody!"
Victoria reached the heavy oak doors. She pushed them open, the polished wood gliding silently on its brass hinges. She didn't look back.
"I know." Victoria said softly to the empty hallway.
She walked past her corner office, not bothering to gather her things. She left the designer pens, the awards, the framed press clippings. She took nothing but her coat and her passport.
When she stepped into the elevator, she pressed the button for the lobby. The car descended, dropping sixty-eight floors in a smooth, silent rush. With every passing floor, the invisible weight that had sat on her chest for nearly two decades grew lighter.
She stepped out of the brass doors and walked across the expansive marble lobby. The security guards nodded to her. The receptionist offered a polite smile. None of them knew they were looking at a ghost.
Victoria pushed through the revolving glass doors and stepped out onto the New York pavement.
It was raining. A cold, miserable September downpour was sweeping across the avenues, turning the traffic into a blur of red taillights and blaring horns.
For a minute, Victoria stood on the edge of the curb, letting the freezing rain soak into the shoulders of her expensive wool coat, letting it ruin her perfect hair, letting it wash the stale air of the firm from her lungs.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her flight app.
JFK to LHR. Departure: 7:00 PM.
Then she opened the messaging app and searched for her sister’s name.
Victoria: I did it, Chloe. I’m on my way to England to claim my reward. A very wise little sister told me I should.
She watched the screen for a few seconds. The reply arrived almost instantly.
Chloe: Holy shit. I’m so proud of you, Vic. Call me the second your phone gets service. Now go get your girl before I have to fly over there and drag you to her myself!
Victoria tilted her head back, closing her eyes against the rain. A slow, brilliant smile broke across her face—the first genuine smile she had worn in this city in decades.
She had never felt so free.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma
The heavy parchment felt smooth against Emma’s thumbs. Embossed in gold ink along the top was the seal of the academy: Certificat de Pâtisserie Professionnelle.
The ceremony in the grand amphitheater had ended twenty minutes ago. The air in the courtyard still smelled of cheap sparkling wine, toasted almonds, and autumn rain drying on wet stone. Around her, her classmates in black blazers were laughing, taking photographs with their families, and trading business cards for upcoming internships at Michelin kitchens in Lyon and Bordeaux.
Emma stood near the arched stone fountain, holding a plastic flute of Crémant, her duffel bag packed and waiting on a bench nearby. She wore dark trousers, a charcoal wool coat, and leather boots that carried zero traces of flour.
A shadow fell over the bench.
Chef Laurent stopped beside her, his hands clasped behind the back of his dark tweed jacket. Without his tall chef's hat, his silver hair was cut close to the scalp, emphasizing the severe line of his jaw. He looked at the diploma in Emma's hands, then raised his pale eyes to meet hers.
"When are you leaving for England?" he asked.
"I’ll take the train to London tomorrow morning, Chef," Emma answered, keeping her shoulders square. "Then the local coach to the countryside."
