The sprawling Vale estate had been stripped of its pretentious, oppressive decor. I had sold the antique armor, the gaudy oil portraits of Daniel’s ancestors, and the heavy velvet drapes that blocked the light. Now, the spaces were open, airy, and filled with modern art and life.
The company, Vale Industries, survived the scandal. It was bleeding, bruised, and heavily audited, but under my new leadership and a completely restructured, aggressive board of directors, we were slowly turning a profit. We excised the rot, fired the enablers, and began rebuilding on a foundation of actual, verifiable math.
Daniel did not fare as well. Facing a mountain of incontrovertible evidence and a mother who testified against him in exchange for a lighter sentence, he pleaded guilty to multiple counts of wire fraud, corporate embezzlement, and domestic assault. He was currently serving a six-year sentence in a minimum-security federal facility, his days of tailored suits and Monaco yachts replaced by khaki uniforms and cafeteria duty.
Gloria avoided prison due to her age and her cooperation, but she lost everything else. She lost her vast social circle, who dropped her the moment the indictments hit the papers. She lost her offshore accounts, which were seized to pay back the investors. She was now living in a small, two-bedroom rented condominium on the outskirts of the city, a ghost haunting a life she used to mock.
It was a Sunday morning.
I walked into the kitchen, the same kitchen where the nightmare had shattered six months prior. I wasn’t wearing a designer dress or rushing to meet unreasonable demands. I wore loose linen pants and a worn-out t-shirt.
I walked over to the Italian marble counter—the same counter I had gripped while burning with fever. I turned on the espresso machine, listening to the comforting, rhythmic hum as it ground the beans.
I kept the kitchen.
I didn’t keep it because I had to cook for anyone. I kept it because I wanted to reclaim the space.
As the dark, rich coffee brewed, golden morning sunlight spilled through the large bay windows, washing over the marble counters and warming the cool stone. I wrapped my hands around the hot ceramic mug, bringing it to my lips.
I looked out at the rolling green lawns of the estate, breathing in the scent of fresh coffee and absolute freedom.
Peace, I realized as I took my first sip, tasted infinitely better than revenge.
But as I turned back to the quiet, beautiful house that I now owned outright, I couldn’t help but smile.
Revenge, I had learned, made for an exceptionally excellent first course.
