Mistress Dragged His Pregnant Wife by the Hair at 40,000 Feet,

Six months later.

The early summer sun over Manhattan was blinding, pouring through the seventy-foot panoramic glass walls of the Prescott Global Tower on Lexington Avenue.

The fifty-fourth floor was an ocean of polished Macedonian marble, brushed titanium, and thirty-foot walnut conference tables where the leaders of global finance assembled to allocate billions of dollars across five continents.

At ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning, the annual plenary session of the Prescott Sovereign Maritime & Infrastructure Board was convened.

Sitting at the foot of the table were eighteen managing directors: heads of logistics from Rotterdam, port operators from Singapore, and senior investment bankers from London, all wearing bespoke dark suits and checking their digital briefing portfolios.

Sitting at the head of the table, wearing an unbuttoned navy linen blazer over a crisp white shirt, his silver-threaded dark hair cut sharp, was Callum Prescott.

Beside him sat an empty, high-backed executive leather chair—the chair that had sat vacant since Grant's arrest eight months earlier.

The double frosted glass doors at the back of the boardroom swung open with a smooth, silent glide.

Walking into the room, her three-inch leather heels clicking with steady, rhythmic, and terrifying precision against the marble floor, was Lena Caldwell Prescott.

She did not look like an uninvited guest.

She did not look like a woman who had ever apologized for taking up space.

She wore an impeccably tailored, off-the-shoulder gown of emerald-green linen that fell in clean, sculptural lines past her knees, an ivory silk scarf draped casually over her shoulder, and her dark hair swept up into an intricate, elegant chignon secured by an antique silver comb that had belonged to Callum’s mother.

Around her neck hung a delicate platinum chain supporting a small, hand-polished pebble of green jade.

In her right arm, she carried a slim, blue leather portfolio stamped with the gold seal of the United States Department of Commerce.

Every single director at that table—including the sovereign wealth representatives from Singapore—rose to their feet in immediate, synchronized respect.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Lena said.

Her voice was not loud. It carried no theatrical arrogance, no performative aggression. It carried the pure, natural, and absolute authority of an owner inspecting her inventory.

She walked to the head of the table, took her seat in the executive leather chair beside Callum, and laid her portfolio flat against the wood.

Callum turned to face the room, his deep, resonant baritone filling the vast glass chamber:

"Members of the board. Gentlemen of the syndicate," Callum announced, his slate-gray eyes sweeping across the eighteen directors with pride.

"I formally introduce the permanent Chairwoman of the Prescott Sovereign Foundation and Managing Director of Maritime Infrastructure: Mrs. Lena Prescott."

The eighteen directors applauded—not a polite, perfunctory golf clap, but a deep, thunderous ovation of genuine corporate respect that echoed off the glass walls and soared out over the Manhattan skyline.

Arthur Vance, sitting at the legal advisory desk, opened the master corporate registry:

"The first item on the docket, Madam Chairwoman," Arthur announced, "is the formal ratification of the sixty-million-dollar clean-energy transport facility at the Port of Newark."

Lena smiled—a slow, magnificent, and eternal smile that lit up her entire face, washing away every shadow of the past, looking across the table at the men who controlled the logistics of the nation.