Chapter 8 - THE BOARDROOM
Three months later.
The crisp autumn wind whipped through the streets of Philadelphia, scattering golden leaves across the pavement. Helen Brooks stepped out of a sleek black town car, wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit. She looked up at the towering glass facade of Hayes & Brooks Architectural Firm.
The name on the building had been officially changed two weeks ago. Patrick’s name was gone, replaced by hers.
Helen walked through the revolving glass doors, her heels clicking authoritatively on the marble floor. The receptionists smiled warmly, offering genuine greetings as she passed. She wasn't just the wife of the boss anymore; she was the boss.
She took the private elevator to the top floor. When the silver doors slid open, Molly was waiting for her in the reception area.
Molly looked radiant. The crushing devastation of Aris’s betrayal had been brutal, but she had survived it with the fierce resilience she inherited from her mother. She had thrown herself into her career, taking over the marketing director position Vanessa had abandoned, and she was thriving.
"Morning, Mom," Molly smiled, handing Helen a cup of coffee. "Robert is waiting for you in the boardroom. The new Chicago contract is ready for your signature."
"Thank you, sweetheart," Helen said, taking a sip. "Did the final paperwork come through from the lawyers?"
Molly nodded, her smile widening into a satisfied grin. "The divorce is finalized. Patrick fought the asset division, but once the prosecutors played the recordings of Diane testifying against him, his defense attorney practically begged for a plea deal. Patrick signed over every remaining cent of his equity to you to avoid the death penalty for conspiracy to commit murder."
Helen felt a profound, quiet peace settle over her.
Patrick was currently serving a sixty-year sentence in a maximum-security federal prison, stripped of his wealth, his reputation, and his freedom. Diane had received twenty years for her role in the conspiracy and her confession regarding the insurance fraud with her late husband.
Aris Thorne, the golden boy who thought he could buy a luxury life with blood money, had been stripped of his medical license and sentenced to twenty-five years. And Vanessa Collins was serving ten years for corporate fraud, her beauty and manipulative charm entirely useless behind bars.
They had all tried to consume Helen's life, and instead, they had consumed themselves.
Helen walked into the massive glass-walled boardroom. The long mahogany table was surrounded by the senior partners, all of whom stood respectfully as she entered.
Robert Hayes smiled, gesturing to the heavy leather chair at the head of the table.
"Helen," Robert said warmly. "Your chair."
Helen looked at the chair. It was the exact same model Patrick had used to sit in, dominating the room with his arrogance and lies.
She walked over, pulled the chair out, and sat down. It felt comfortable. It felt earned.
"Let’s get to work, gentlemen," Helen said, opening the portfolio in front of her.
The meeting lasted two hours, filled with genuine collaboration and respect. Helen’s meticulous attention to detail—honed by decades of nursing—proved invaluable in restructuring the firm's chaotic finances. By the time the meeting adjourned, the partners were energized, and the firm was officially back on solid ground.
As the room cleared, Robert lingered behind, packing his briefcase.
"You’re a natural at this, Helen," Robert noted, looking impressed. "Patrick always told us you didn't have the stomach for corporate strategy."
"Patrick underestimated a lot of things," Helen replied smoothly, closing her folder. "But mostly, he underestimated the endurance of a woman who spends thirty years keeping people alive."
Robert chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Well said. Oh, before I forget, there’s a package for you at reception. It arrived by courier this morning from the federal penitentiary. It was screened by security, but they said you should open it yourself."
Helen’s brow furrowed. A package from the prison.
She walked out to the reception desk. A small, battered cardboard box sat waiting for her. She took it back into her private office and shut the door.
She used a letter opener to slice through the heavy packing tape.
Inside the box rested a single, familiar object.
It was Patrick’s heavy, silver chronograph watch. The one he had left on Diane’s entryway table the morning his entire world collapsed.
Beneath the watch was a handwritten note on cheap prison-issued paper.
Helen, The warden said I'm allowed to send one personal effect home. I want you to have this. Maybe every time you look at it, you'll remember the time we shared, and find it in your heart to forgive me. I have nothing left. — Patrick
Helen stared at the watch, the heavy silver ticking faintly in the quiet office.
He still thought he could manipulate her. He still thought a tragic gesture could rewrite thirty-four years of betrayal and a plotted murder. He wanted her to keep the watch as an anchor, tethering her to his memory, ensuring he still occupied space in her mind.
Helen picked up the watch. She walked over to the large trash can beside her desk, hovered her hand over the rim, and dropped the heavy silver timepiece inside.
May you like
It landed with a dull, final thud.
She didn't need a watch to remind her of the time she had lost. She was entirely focused on the time she had left.
