On the drawings, in the title block where the architect’s name belonged, were the words Sharon had once thought she might never see attached to a real project again.
Her own name.
She ran a hand across the page.
James had spent years building an empire by treating people, information, loyalty, and even love as assets he could acquire and control.
Sharon had once mistaken endurance for commitment.
The gala taught her the difference.
She had walked into that ballroom as Mrs.
James Scott, wearing a dress he approved, carrying his child, watching him dance with another woman.
She had walked out with no ring, no certainty, and one folder of questions.
By morning, James had lost control of the world he thought belonged to him.
Sharon had gained something quieter.
The right to design her own.
