Chapter 10 - The Empress of the Shore
I looked down at my mother’s outstretched, trembling hands.
For my entire life, I had dreamed of this moment.
I had dreamed of hearing her apologize.
I had dreamed of watching Chloe understand the pain of being discarded, of seeing Derek Vance brought to his knees in the dirt.
I had thought that when this moment arrived, I would feel an overwhelming rush of triumphant vindication.
Instead, as I looked at the three of them—broken, pathetic, and drowning in their own shallow ambitions—I felt only a profound, liberating emptiness.
The chains that had bound me to their judgment didn't just break; they simply dissolved into nothingness.
They were not monsters.
They were just small, weak, frightened people who had spent their entire lives trying to feel big by making me feel small.
“You are going to walk out to the sanctuary, Mother,” I said, my voice calm, steady, and filled with an authority that didn't need to be shouted.
My mother blinked, startled by the cold stillness in my tone.
“You are going to inform the guests that the wedding is canceled due to an irreconcilable matter of character.”
I turned my gaze toward Chloe, who looked up at me from the floor, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen with tears.
“Roman’s legal team has structured the indemnity,” I said to my sister.
“You will not go to prison. The two point four million dollars will be repaid through the liquidation of Derek’s assets and his firm’s insurance policies.”
Chloe let out a fresh sob, reaching out to touch the hem of my cream coat.
“Sadi… I’m sorry… I was so stupid… I was so awful to you…”
I gently pulled the fabric of my coat out of her grasp.
I didn't yell at her.
I didn't offer her empty platitudes either.
“You were awful, Chloe,” I said quietly.
“You let our mother convince you that cruel was the same thing as elegant.”
I looked down at the five-carat diamond on my finger, then back to my sister.
“You have a chance to figure out who you are when you aren't performing for other people. Don't waste it.”
I turned around, not waiting for another word from my mother, and walked toward the heavy oak door.
Roman fell into step beside me, his presence solid, warm, and protective as we exited the bridal suite and walked back down the long stone corridor.
We walked out of the cathedral into the crisp Chicago morning air.
The paparazzi and society reporters were still gathered near the front steps, but Roman’s security team had already formed a human barricade, clearing a wide, unobstructed path toward the Maybach.
As we reached the car, Roman caught my wrist, pulling me gently to a stop beside the open door.
He looked down at me, his dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made the noise of the city street fade into background static.
“You didn't take your revenge, Sadi,” he murmured, his thumb resting against the inside of my wrist, feeling the steady beat of my pulse.
“You had the power to let the marshals take your sister in that white dress in front of every camera in the state.”
“Revenge is for people who are still trapped in the past, Roman,” I said softly, looking up into his dark, handsome face.
“I spent my whole life being trapped in that room with them. I don't want to live there anymore.”
A slow, breathtaking smile spread across Roman’s lips—the first true, unmasked smile I had ever seen on his face.
It completely transformed him from a terrifying mob boss into a man who looked fiercely, undeniably proud.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that sent shivers straight to my core.
“Because we have other business to attend to.”
He opened the car door wider, offering me his hand.
“What business?” I asked, stepping into the leather interior.
Roman slid in beside me, pulling the heavy door shut and sealing us back inside the quiet sanctuary of the Maybach.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded envelope of cream parchment, setting it in my lap.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was the deed to an oceanfront art studio in Kenilworth, overlooking Lake Michigan, fully titled in the name of Sadi Miller.
Beside the deed was an acceptance letter from the Art Institute of Chicago’s master fellowship program, bearing a start date for the upcoming spring semester.
My breath caught in my throat, a fresh wave of tears springing to my eyes—not of pain, but of pure, disbelieving wonder.
“How… how did you find my sketches?” I whispered, remembering the battered sketchbook I had hidden under the mattress of my servant room.
“I told you yesterday, Sadi,” Roman murmured, his fingers reaching up to cup my jaw, his thumb gently wiping away a single tear.
“I have been watching you for three months.”
He leaned in close, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, unbreakable promise.
“The world tried to tell you that you were only good for cleaning up other people’s messes.”
May you like
He leaned down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from mine, his warm breath intoxicating against my skin.
“I bought this city, Sadi. But you… you are the only masterpiece I intend to keep.”
