Not because Celeste had been right.
Because the people working there had been the ones who understood what it meant to build something without being seen.
I thanked them.
Then I went upstairs to the office that was now mine.
On the desk sat two things.
My phone, still holding the records that had helped expose Celeste.
And a childhood photograph Adrian had given me.
The girl in the picture was five years old.
She had my eyes.
For most of my life, I believed being abandoned meant I had come from nowhere.
I was learning that identity was more complicated than blood, wealth, or a famous last name.
Adrian could give me history.
Bellamy House could give me ownership.
Neither could erase the woman who had survived bus stations, shelters, dish pits, warehouses, and rooms where powerful people expected silence.
That woman had saved herself long before a billionaire stood up.
The difference now was that she no longer had to stand alone.
