At exactly 8:30 Saturday night, a waiter placed two dozen red roses between my husband

Two months later, the final divorce hearing took place in Department 14 of the San Diego Superior Court.

The proceeding lasted less than twenty minutes.

Because of the overwhelming evidence of financial fraud, infidelity, and concealment of assets, the judge signed the dissolution decree with prejudice. Every single dollar of the Linwood trust was restored. The family home, the investments, the patents developed under Apex Horizon—all were awarded to me.

Landon was brought into the courtroom in an orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit, his ankles shackled. He had been unable to post his five-million-dollar federal bail after all his accounts were seized.

As the judge slammed the gavel down, signaling the official end of our marriage, Landon looked across the aisle at me.

His hair was messy, his eyes hollowed out by sixty days in a holding cell. He raised his cuffed hands slightly, mouthing three words: *“I’m sorry, Harper.”*

I didn't scowl. I didn't smile. I didn't offer him a shred of anger or satisfaction.

I looked directly through him, as if he were made of clean glass, picked up my leather folder, and turned away. The man who had occupied twelve years of my thoughts no longer held a single second of my future.

Outside the courthouse, the Southern California sun was brilliant and warm.

Reporters shouted questions from behind the barricades, but my security team, arranged by Julian, kept a clean path to the curb.

Waiting by the steps was Sloane Bennett.

She wore a simple dark business suit, her hair pulled back. She held a manila folder in her hands.

I paused on the marble steps, signaling my security to wait.

“Harper,” Sloane said, stepping forward.

“Sloane,” I acknowledged.

“I heard the judge signed the decree,” she said, her voice quiet. “And that the SEC reached an agreement on Apex Horizon’s restructuring.”

“Yes,” I said. “Apex is being absorbed into Linwood Maritime. We’re keeping the algorithms, rebranding the logistics tech, and protecting the employees’ pensions.”

Sloane nodded, handing me the folder. “These are the formal release waivers from Bennett Capital. My father signed them this morning. We’ve relinquished all residual claims to the tech. It’s entirely yours.”

I took the folder, looking at her with genuine curiosity. “What are you going to do now?”

A small, wry smile touched her lips. “I’m transferring to our London office next week. I need to get as far away from California as I can and figure out who I am when I’m not chasing my father’s validation or falling for wolves in expensive suits.”

She extended her hand.

I looked at it for a beat, then reached out and took it. Her grip was firm, honest, and free of the toxicity that Landon had woven between us.

“Good luck in London, Sloane,” I said.

“Good luck with your empire, Harper,” she replied. “You earned every inch of it.”