The scream did not come from the dead woman’s sister.

With Madison and Caleb behind bars, the true scope of the corruption within the Westwood empire began to surface like wreckage after a catastrophic maritime disaster.

For three days, federal forensic accountants and Adrian’s personal corporate strike team tore through the digital infrastructure of Westwood Holdings. What they uncovered was staggering: over forty million dollars in systematic embezzlement, shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands and Panama, and illicit corporate takeovers executed under forged proxy votes.

Margaret Westwood, broken by the public humiliation and the arrest of her favorite son, locked herself inside the west wing of the Mercer Island mansion and refused to speak to anyone. The board of directors held an emergency, closed-door session that lasted fourteen hours.

When the oak doors of the boardroom finally opened at midnight, Adrian was unanimously voted Chairman and CEO with absolute, unchallengeable voting rights.

The first thing he did as chairman was not sign a merger or acquire a tech startup.

He drove out to a modest, weather-beaten apartment complex on the industrial south side of Chicago.

He parked his black town car in the gravel lot, stepped out into the crisp evening air, and walked up the concrete steps to apartment 4B.

He knocked twice.

The door opened a crack, secured by a heavy brass chain. Rachel’s tired, anxious eyes peered out into the dim hallway. When she saw Adrian standing there in his dark overcoat, her expression softened into immediate relief.

“Mr. Westwood,” she breathed, unlatching the chain and pulling the door open. “Please... come in.”

The apartment was tiny, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and toasted bread, but it was impeccably clean. In the corner of the small living room, Emma was sitting on a floral-print sofa, coloring in a worn coloring book with pink crayons.

When she saw Adrian, the little girl put down her crayon and slid off the sofa.

“Hello, Mr. Westwood,” Emma said politely, clutching her stuffed rabbit.

Adrian knelt down, coming eye-level with her, just as he had done in the grand ballroom days ago.

“Hi, Emma,” Adrian smiled—a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes for the first time in three years. “I came to tell you something very important.”

Emma tilted her head. “Are the bad people gone?”

“They’re gone,” Adrian nodded softly. “They’re never coming back. And because of your bravery, justice was finally served.”

Rachel stood nearby, wringing her hands in her apron. “Mr. Westwood, I don't know how to thank you. After what happened at the gala... I assumed I’d be fired, or worse, dragged into the police investigation. I never imagined... well, the HR department called me this afternoon.”

Adrian stood up and turned to face her. “They called to offer you a promotion, Rachel. Effective immediately, you are appointed as the Director of Corporate Estate Operations for the entire Westwood residential portfolio. Your salary has been increased tenfold, and a trust fund has been established for Emma's full university education, fully paid by the Westwood Foundation.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to form words.

“Mr. Westwood... I... I can't accept all of this,” she choked out, shaking her head. “It’s too much.”

“It’s not nearly enough for someone who had the courage to speak the truth when everyone else chose to stay silent,” Adrian said firmly. “Pack your things, Rachel. A moving crew will be here tomorrow morning to transfer you and Emma into the north guest residence on the estate. You’ll never have to worry about rent, bills, or safety again.”

Emma looked up at her mother, her gray eyes wide with childish wonder. “Mommy, do we get to live in the big castle with the chandeliers?”