chapter 15
I turned back to the camera.
“The man responsible for forging the documents, Graham West, was involved in a similar scheme years ago. He attempted to blackmail my father, failed, and disappeared. The recent documents leaked to the press were never authenticated, and several contain identical errors to the forgery case linked to West.”
Another slide.
Matthew’s name.
Emma’s involvement.
Andros Capital’s backdoor acquisition attempts.
Their entire strategy laid bare.
“And today, I am submitting all of this evidence to federal authorities,” I concluded. “Because corruption does not belong to one family. It is a disease. And I will not let it infect the future we’re building.”
The room erupted in flashes.
Reporters shouted questions. Microphones thrust forward.
But I turned, calmly walked away, and let the storm burn without me.
Within twenty-four hours, Andros Capital was under investigation.
Emma deactivated all her social media accounts.
Matthew fled to Europe.
The Sullivan board, rattled but no longer divided, voted unanimously to reaffirm my leadership.
And Johnson Group shares not only rebounded.
They soared.
Michael and I didn’t celebrate with champagne or luxury dinners.
Instead, we stood barefoot in the backyard of our mansion that night, the air thick with the scent of gardenias and rain-soaked grass. I was wearing one of his oversized sweaters. He was holding two mugs of tea.
“I never imagined I’d see this day,” he said softly.
“You mean the day we weren’t pretending anymore?”
He nodded. “I used to think we were a contract. Nothing more.”
“And now?”
He looked at me.
“I think you’re the reason I breathe.”
I smiled, but my eyes stung.
Because behind everything, revenge, empires, victory, there was always this.
Us.
The marriage that began as a business arrangement had become the only real thing in a world of masks.
Weeks later, after the news calmed and headlines shifted to newer scandals, we sat side by side in the Johnson Group boardroom, finalizing the merger that would cement our leadership over both companies.
Lily Johnson.
Michael Sullivan.
No longer figureheads.
True partners.
And as we signed the final page of the merger contract, Michael paused, pen in hand.
“There’s something I want to ask,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Now?”
He smiled nervously.
“Rule number three.”
It hit me like a soft slap of memory.
On our wedding night, Michael had laid down three rules.
One: separate rooms.
Two: shared resources.
Three: a rule for me to decide.
A blank line I’d never filled.
Until now.
I reached for the pen and wrote four words under that third line:
No more separate anything.
He read it.
Then leaned forward and kissed me, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Deal.”