Chapter20
He imagined her standing beneath the spotlight, trophy in hand, her smile radiant, her confidence unmistakable.
It should have been hers years ago. That brilliance, that glory–delayed only because of him.
When he closed his eyes, memories flashed in cruel succession.
Her timid yet hopeful gaze the day she married him.
Her quiet figure preparing dinner alone at Stonecrest.
Her tears in the police station, shattered with despair.
And, last of all, the way she had looked at him–eyes colder than winter, emptied of all emotion.
A single tear broke free, hot and unbidden, tracing down his cheek before vanishing into his collar.
When he opened his eyes again, the storm inside had quieted. What remained was acceptance- resigned, distant, and strangely gentle. A blessing from afar.
He had finally released her… and himself. She would have happiness. It would never again belong to
him.
He switched off the radio. The static cut out, leaving only the drone of night insects outside Kambara village.
He picked up a file on the Frontier Aid Clinic, switched on the lamp, and bent over the papers with
calm focus.
The warm glow stretched his shadow long against the mud–brick wall–solitary, but no longer struggling.
Three more years passed.
Paris. A golden afternoon on the Left Bank.
–
Grace Studio Sevonna Atelier basked in sunlight, its floor–to–ceiling windows flooding the space where her team made final adjustments to a towering model. The piece was fluid, futuristic, and laced with Eastern minimalism–a creation soon to be unveiled to the world.
Grace wore a sharp white skirt–suit, her hair swept neatly back, her face open, her posture poised.
Chapter20
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Fingers brushed along a detail on the model as she conferred in fluent French with an engineer. Her expression was focused, assured.
Confidence and quiet strength seemed to radiate from her.
The phone rang. Adrian Westcott.
“Will you need me at the gala dinner tonight?” His warm voice carried across the line.
A light smile touched her lips. “Yes. But I may be a little late. There’s still a detail here I want
finished.”
“No problem. My queen, you‘ re always worth waiting for,” he said with easy laughter, his words filled with patient support.
When she hung up, her assistant brought in a bouquet of fresh white roses. Nestled inside was a handwritten note from Adrian.
Proud of you. Always.
No flowery declarations. Just the steady weight of love and respect.
She was no longer merely Mrs. Stone, defined by another man’s name‘.
She was Jiang Wei–a star of the international design world. Her works were collected by museums.
Her name was paired with words like innovation, strength, elegance.
Her life, her career, her love–she held all of it firmly in her own hands.
Adrian had come into her world like a steady wind, smoothing old creases. He admired her
brilliance, respected her independence, and gave her space as an equal. His love was grounding,
never suffocating, never demanding.
With him, she found peace. Freedom.
Marriage wasn’t a finish line she needed. Happiness was no longer a distant luxury–it was here,
present, real.
That evening, she stood before the mirror in her dressing room, slipping into the haute couture gown made for the gala.
The woman reflected back at her had eyes bright with conviction, a smile calm yet luminous. Every trace of past pain had been tempered into quiet wisdom and resilience that shone through her
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features.
She lifted her clutch, turned, and walked with unhurried grace toward the waiting car outside- ready to claim the next triumph that awaited her.
