Chapter 9 - The Spring Thaw
By April, the snow on the Ashford estate had entirely melted, replaced by endless stretches of vibrant green grass and blooming white narcissus flowers along the winding private drive.
The trial of Helena Ashford and Marcus Vance had lasted three weeks in the Central Criminal Court of England and Wales. It hadn't been the sensational media circus many predicted; with the airtight digital ledgers, encrypted server backups, and biometric logs I had extracted from the master terminal on that first snowy night, the prosecution’s case was ironclad.
Marcus Vance received twelve years for corporate fraud and attempted manslaughter.
Helena Ashford, facing multiple counts of conspiracy, premeditated poisoning, and obstruction of justice, was sentenced to twenty years behind bars—effectively ending the reign of the woman who had ruled London high finance with an iron fist for three decades.
Inside the master suite, the heavy velvet curtain had been replaced by a magnificent double-pane mahogany door that sealed with a soft, satisfying click.
I stood on the balcony in a light silk blouse, watching the morning sun catch the surface of the private lake below. My brother, Leo, was finally out of his rehabilitation clinic, fully recovered from his surgeries and enrolled in a graduate program at Oxford—funded entirely by a quiet, anonymous trust that Ethan had set up on our wedding anniversary.
Behind me, the door opened. Footsteps crossed the hardwood floor—steady, unhurried, entirely his own.
Ethan stepped out onto the balcony, wrapping a light cashmere scarf around my shoulders against the crisp morning breeze. He didn't need a cane anymore, though he still walked with a slight, barely perceptible stiffness on his left side where the crash had tried to end him.
“The quarterly financial review is at ten,” Ethan murmured, resting his chin lightly on my shoulder, his arms circling my waist. “Are you planning to fire any more senior executives today, or can I actually have my wife’s attention for lunch?”
I turned around in his arms, smiling as I looped my hands around his neck.
“Depends,” I teased, tilting my head up to look into his dark eyes. “Are the senior executives going to try to poison your coffee again?”
Ethan laughed, pulling me closer against his chest. “No. The new board members are too terrified of you to even look at a coffee pot when you’re in the room.”
“Good,” I whispered. “Because I’m officially resigning as your corporate terror.”
“Oh?” Ethan raised an eyebrow, his lips brushing against my forehead. “And what’s your new title?”
“Just your wife,” I smiled. “For as long as the contract lasts.”
May you like
Ethan’s expression turned serious, the dark intensity in his eyes softening into something infinitely warm and permanent. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box—not a syringe, not a legal contract, but a simple, perfect platinum band encrusted with delicate diamonds that caught the morning light.
“The old contract is void,” Ethan whispered, slipping the ring onto my finger. “This one doesn't have an expiration date.”
