Chapter 7 - THE LETTER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING AGAIN
Six months passed.
I started a small foundation.
I hired women who had survived difficult marriages.
I funded legal consultations.
I helped women obtain temporary housing.
I never called myself a victim.
I called myself a survivor.
There was a difference.
One morning, Jonathan arrived with a letter.
“It came through the old Harrington attorneys.”
I opened it.
The handwriting belonged to Zachary.
My hands shook.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I read.
Genevieve,
I don't expect forgiveness.
You shouldn't give it.
I stared at the words.
He continued.
I spent years believing power meant making people afraid of me.
I learned too late that fear isn't respect.
He described prison.
Counseling.
The consequences of his actions.
But I didn't know whether to believe him.
At the end, he wrote:
The worst part isn't losing the company.
It's realizing I destroyed the one person who actually loved me.
I folded the letter.
Jonathan watched me.
“Do you want me to destroy it?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“What will you do?”
“Nothing.”
That was the point.
I didn't need to respond.
I didn't need closure from him.
I had already closed the door.
That evening, I went to dinner with my brothers.
For the first time in years, we laughed without discussing the Harringtons.
Gabriel told a ridiculous story about a client.
Lucas argued with Xavier about sports.
Dominic complained about everyone's financial decisions.
Jonathan watched us.
Then he raised his glass.
“To Genevieve.”
Everyone lifted theirs.
“To Genevieve.”
I smiled.
“To surviving?”
Jonathan shook his head.
“To choosing yourself.”
I lifted my glass.
“To choosing myself.”
Later that night, I stood outside beneath the stars.
My phone rang.
It was a number I didn't recognize.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman's voice spoke.
“My name is Amelia.”
“Who is this?”
“I worked for Harrington Construction.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you want?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I found something in the old corporate archive.”
“What?”
“A document from twenty-seven years ago.”
I sat down.
“What document?”
“A settlement agreement.”
I frowned.
“We already know about the settlement.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“You don't know this one.”
I stood.
“What does it say?”
“Your father's lawsuit wasn't withdrawn.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“The records were falsified.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Who falsified them?”
“I don't know.”
“Amelia.”
Silence.
Then she whispered,
“But I found the original.”
“Where?”
“I'm sending it to you.”
My phone buzzed.
A file appeared.
I opened it.
My father's signature.
Donald's signature.
And another name.
A name I recognized.
My father's attorney.
But beneath the signatures was something even more disturbing.
A payment record.
Thirty million dollars.
Paid to an account belonging to—
my mother.
I stared at the screen.
My mother had been dead for eleven years.
Why would Donald Harrington have paid her?
And why had she never told anyone?
I called Jonathan.
He answered immediately.
“What's wrong?”
May you like
I whispered,
“We were looking in the wrong direction.”
