Chapter 9 - The Ashes of GreenwichZ
The private helicopter descended smoothly through the autumn fog over Connecticut, its rotors kicking up a storm of amber and crimson leaves as it landed on the manicured lawn of the Greenwich estate.
It was my first time returning to the house since the night of the gala.
Three months had passed. Three months during which the world I used to inhabit had been completely dismantled and rebuilt. The heavy wrought-iron gates, which once felt like the bars of an elegant prison, now stood wide open. Federal marshals had finished their asset asset-seizure sweeps, and the property was officially transferred to the liquidating arm of the Robbins Foundation.
I stepped out onto the damp grass, wearing a crisp camel-wool coat and black leather boots. Owen walked half a step behind me, a sleek leather folio tucked under his arm, his presence a silent, unwavering anchor.
"The auctioneers have cataloged everything inside," Owen said, his low voice cutting through the damp air. "The art, the vehicles, the wine cellar. Everything Harold acquired using foundation funds will be sold off by the end of the month. The proceeds go directly into the scholarship endowment."
"Good," I said, my voice crisp and steady. "I don't want a single souvenir from his life left intact."
We walked up the grand stone steps and pushed open the massive front doors. The grand foyer, once bustling with high-society catering teams and neurotic event planners, was eerily quiet. Blue furniture covers draped over the Italian silk sofas like lingering ghosts.
I walked slowly through the ground floor, my heels echoing off the marble. I stopped at the entrance to Harold’s private study.
The door was unlocked. Inside, papers were scattered across the mahogany desk—remnants of the desperate hours Harold had spent searching for a way out before the FBI caught up to him in Newark. On the bookshelf sat framed photographs of Harold posing with senators, CEOs, and celebrities.
Not a single picture in the entire room included me. Eleven years of marriage, and I had been systematically erased from his domestic landscape long before he tried to sell me for five hundred dollars.
"Anastasia."
I turned around. Owen was standing at the threshold, holding a white envelope stamped with the seal of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
"A letter from Harold’s legal team arrived at the Geneva office yesterday," Owen said, handing it to me. "He’s requesting a visitation meeting before his transfer to the federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania. He claims he has information about your father’s old records that wasn't included in the FBI seizure."
I looked down at the envelope. Harold’s handwriting—sharp, arrogant, slanting aggressively to the right—was unmistakable.
"He’s still trying to trade secrets," I said, a cold, dry smile touching my lips. "He still thinks he has something I need."
"You don't have to see him," Owen said gently, stepping closer. "He’s facing twelve years. He has no leverage, no assets, and no allies left in New York."
I ran my thumb along the smooth paper of the envelope, feeling no anger, no fear, and no grief. Only a deep, calm finality.
"I know," I said, slipping the letter into my coat pocket. "Which is precisely why I’m going to go. I want him to look at me across a glass partition and understand that he will spend the next decade realizing he destroyed himself for nothing."
I turned back to the study, looking at the large mahogany desk where Harold used to sit while screaming at me over the telephone.
"Clear out this house by Friday, Owen," I said firmly. "Sell the furniture, donate the estate to a regional educational trust, and tear down the front gates. I want this place transformed into something that gives back to the people he exploited."
Owen looked at me, his sharp blue eyes soft with admiration. "Consider it done."
As we walked out of the house toward the waiting helicopter, my phone chimed with an incoming notification. It was a formal communication from the Swiss Federal Prosecutor’s office in Zurich:
Notice of Arrest: Marcus Vance detained at Zurich Airport attempting to enter Switzerland under a forged diplomatic passport.
I stopped on the tarmac, looking down at the screen. The two men who had orchestrated my silence—one who tried to sell my dignity, and one who tried to steal my birthright—were both in cuffs.
"Marcus is in custody," I told Owen, showing him the screen.
Owen read the message, a slow, grim satisfaction settling over his features. "The board in Geneva just voted to confirm your permanent appointment as Chief Executive Officer. The Vance family era of corruption is officially over."
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I looked up at the autumn sky, feeling the cold wind on my face. The shadow of the Robbins family, the ghost of Julian Vance, and the wreckage of Harold Prescott’s greed were finally behind me.
"Let's go to Pennsylvania," I said, stepping into the helicopter. "I have one last debt to settle."
