Chapter 11 - THE SCAR AND THE CROWN
Five years later, the publishing world celebrated Whitmore’s forty-fifth anniversary. I stood at the podium in a tailored navy suit, looking out at a sea of brilliant authors and dedicated staff. My legacy was secure, entirely bulletproof. Valerie didn't attend. I had heard through the grapevine that she was working as an office manager at a mid-level logistics firm in New Jersey. She was renting a small apartment, paying her own bills, and taking the subway. For her thirty-fifth birthday, I didn't send her a diamond bracelet or a trust fund check. I sent her a simple, handwritten card with a single $100 bill inside, along with a note that read: I am proud of the calluses on your hands. Love, Margaret. It was the smallest financial gift I had ever given her, but I knew, deep down, it was the first one she had actually earned. The empire was safe, but more importantly, the monster was finally dead.
