Chapter 7 - Retribution and Confessions
By the following week, the financial and social landscape of Rhode Island’s elite had been thoroughly rewritten.
The March Hospitality Group formally filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy after Roman’s holding company called in every single corporate note simultaneously. The Bellweather Hotel was placed under court-appointed receivership, and Arthur March stepped down as CEO in absolute disgrace.
Selene tried to rally her high-society friends for support, only to discover that doors she had walked through her entire life were now firmly bolted against her. The powerful families who had fawned over her wealth suddenly remembered every cruel slight, every unpaid debt, and every arrogant dismissal she had ever handed out.
Julian Vale was arrested at his office by federal agents on charges of corporate wire fraud, embezzlement, and securities tampering, facing up to fifteen years in federal prison.
Inside the cliffside estate, however, the storm had finally cleared, leaving behind days of brilliant autumn sunshine and crisp sea air.
Norah sat at the large oak dining table, sorting through design catalogs for the nursery. Her hand rested gently over her slightly rounded stomach, a peaceful smile on her face.
The heavy front doors opened, and Roman walked in, loosening his tie as he tossed his briefcase onto the entryway console. He walked into the kitchen, poured two glasses of sparkling apple cider, and brought one over to her, pressing it gently against her cheek before taking a seat opposite her.
“How are you feeling today?” Roman asked, his gray eyes searching her face with deep, quiet tenderness.
“I feel like I’m breathing fresh air for the first time in my life,” Norah admitted, looking up from the nursery catalogs. She reached across the table, taking his hand. “You didn't have to buy the Bellweather Hotel, you know.”
Roman raised an eyebrow. “Who said I bought it to make a point?”
“Then why did you?”
“Because,” Roman said simply, a rare, warm smile touching his lips, “architecturally, it’s a magnificent building. And I wanted to make sure the basement laundry room was converted into a modern, heated art studio for my wife.”
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Norah’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, tears of disbelief and overwhelming happiness welling in her eyes. “An art studio? Roman... I haven't painted in six years.”
“Then you have a lot of canvas to catch up on,” he whispered, leaning across the table to press his lips gently to hers.
