Chapter 6 - Healing the Wounds
Three weeks later, the chaos of the ballroom had faded into the background of a quiet, sunlit sanctuary in Malibu.
The house sat on a secluded cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There were no chandeliers, no crystal champagne flutes, and no imported white roses. Instead, the wooden floors echoed with the sound of a little boy’s laughter—a bright, unburdened sound that filled every corner of the rooms.
Oliver was sitting at the wooden kitchen island, happily devouring a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes that Hannah had made, while wearing a soft blue hoodie that actually fit him.
Eleanor stood by the open kitchen window, holding a mug of black coffee, watching the waves crash against the rocks below.
The legal war had been swift and devastating. Arthur Carrington was currently behind bars awaiting trial, denied bail due to flight risk and the severity of his federal charges. Carrington, Vance & Sterling had dissolved under the weight of the scandal, its assets frozen and redistributed to victims of the housing fraud and—most importantly—placed into an irrevocable trust bearing Oliver’s name.
The media circus had eventually moved on to newer scandals, leaving Eleanor and Oliver in peace.
A soft knock sounded at the front door.
Eleanor walked down the hallway and opened it. Standing on the porch wasn't a reporter or a process server, but a courier holding a heavy, sealed manila envelope.
“Delivery for Ms. Whitmore,” the courier said politely.
Eleanor signed for it, closed the door, and opened the envelope on the entryway table. Inside was a single, handwritten note on thick parchment paper, accompanied by a key.
The note was from Daniel.
Eleanor,
The courts have finalized the dissolution of our property holdings. The Malibu house is officially yours, free and clear of any Carrington encumbrances. I know an apology is worthless after everything my family put you through, but I want you to know that I testified against my father this morning.
You always said you wanted justice. I hope this is a start.
— Daniel
Eleanor stared at the note for a long moment, then folded it neatly and dropped it into the recycling bin. She didn't feel hatred toward Daniel anymore; she felt nothing at all. And in the lexicon of Eleanor Whitmore, nothing was the ultimate freedom.
She turned around and walked back toward the kitchen, where Oliver was holding up a drawing of a stick-figure family standing beside a giant ocean wave.
“Look, Mom! I drew us,” Oliver said proudly, pointing a crayon at the paper. “That’s you, and that’s me, and that’s our big house with no bad guys allowed.”
May you like
Eleanor knelt beside his chair, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his soft hair.
“No bad guys allowed,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Ever again.”
