THE EMERALD RECKONING

As Zariah and Joon turned to walk back toward the grand exit, Michael let out a pathetic, broken wail from the floor, his hands buried in his face as investors and reporters swarmed around him like piranhas, flashing camera bulbs blinding him in a relentless storm of exposure.

"Zariah! Please! Wait! Tell them it's not true! Please!" Michael sobbed, his voice cracking with the humiliating realization of everything he had lost—his money, his reputation, his status, and the woman who had built him up before he tried to tear her down.

Zariah didn't even slow her pace. She didn't look back. There was no hatred left in her heart, no bitter desire for prolonged vengeance. There was only the peaceful, weightless freedom of knowing she had left the wreckage far behind.

They stepped back through the heavy glass doors into the cool, crisp Manhattan night air.

The black Rolls-Royce idled quietly at the curb, its polished body reflecting the neon lights of the city. The driver, a sharp-eyed man in a dark suit, immediately stepped forward and opened the rear door.

Joon gently assisted Zariah into the plush leather interior, making sure her emerald silk gown was neatly arranged before sliding in beside her and pulling the heavy door shut, sealing out the noise, the chaos, and the ghosts of the past.

The car glided smoothly away from the Plaza Hotel, merging into the glowing river of city traffic.

Zariah leaned her head back against the soft leather headrest, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The tightening in her chest was completely gone. The phantom ringing in her ears had vanished, replaced by the steady, comforting hum of the engine and the warm weight of Joon’s hand resting protectively over hers.

"Feeling better?" Joon asked, turning his head to look at her with a tender smile that he reserved for her alone.

Zariah placed her other hand gently over her rounding belly, feeling the faint, reassuring flutter of her twins kicking against the silk.