"Phoebe.
Wait."
She stopped.
"I'm stepping down from Crawford Industries.
I'm turning the company over to independent management.
I can't run it knowing what my family did to get where we are."
"That's your decision, Mr.
Crawford.
Not mine."
"Graham." His voice was gentle.
"Please.
Call me Graham."
She looked at him.
This man had built something honest.
And his wife had poisoned it from the inside.
"I'm sorry, Graham.
For what it's worth, I know you weren't part of this."
"It's worth more than you know."
He extended his hand.
She shook it.
"If you ever need anything — and I mean anything — you call me.
Not as a business partner.
As a friend."
Phoebe nodded once.
"I won't forget that."
She and her grandfather walked out of the ballroom.
The doors closed behind them.
The orchestra didn't play.
The cameras didn't flash.
The wedding of the year was over.
---
Three weeks later, Phoebe sat in her grandfather's study.
The fire crackled softly.
Charles handed her a cup of tea.
"You haven't said much about it."
"There's not much to say."
"You haven't cried since that day."
"I cried enough in thirty seconds to last a year."
