Chapter 7

The first thing I did when I got back to my apartment was sleep.

I slept like the dead. No dreams, no disturbances.

It was as if I were paying back three years' worth of sleep debt all at once.

When I finally opened my eyes, dusk had already fallen on the third day.

The last rays of the sunset streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating the whole living room in a warm, golden glow.

I walked barefoot to the window.

Down below, the streets buzzed with cars and people rushing by.

The world kept spinning, never stopping for anyone's happiness or grief.

And I had finally torn myself completely free from his world.

I turned on my phone.

There were hundreds of missed calls and countless unread messages.

There were texts from Alex, hospital colleagues, and several unknown numbers.

I ignored them all and opened up the financial news.

The top headline was all about Grant Group.

[Grant Corp CEO Jonathan Grant Awakens Post-Surgery in Stable Condition; Stock Prices Rebound.]

The accompanying photo was the imposing high-rise of the Grant Corporation headquarters.

I gave a slight smirk and closed the tab.

A text from my lawyer popped up right after.

[Ms. Evans, the Grant estate has transferred all properties and equity stipulated in the agreement into your name. The 300 million in cash has also been wired to your designated account. Please verify.]

I opened my banking app.

Staring at that incredibly long string of zeros, I didn't even blink.

Three years of my youth, a meticulously orchestrated humiliation, and a piece of shrapnel that could have killed him at any second.

So, this was the price tag for all of it.

Fine by me.

Money was a beautiful thing. At least money couldn't betray you.

I poured myself a glass of red wine, sat on the rug, and sipped it slowly.

I had bought this apartment using my very first surgical bonus.

Every corner of it was filled with my own personal touch.

It wasn't like the cold, sterile Grant mansion, which was massive like a museum but completely devoid of warmth.

I had lived there for three years, yet I always felt like a squatter, a shadow forced to hide in the dark.

Now, I was finally home.

I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts.

My finger hovered over Jonathan Grant's name for a fraction of a second.

Then, without a second thought, I deleted him and blocked his number.

From this day forward, our paths would never cross again.

Just as I was about to turn my phone off and bask in the rare peace, a call stubbornly came through.