Chapter 31: Return of Verline

The courtroom emptied slowly.

Reporters rushed outside before either legal team reached the doors.

Every headline would say the same thing.

Vivian Ashford had won.

I remained seated for another minute.

Not because I was overwhelmed.

Because I wanted everyone else to leave first.

My lawyer closed his file.

"The injunction takes effect immediately," he said.

"Ashford Holdings has forty-eight hours to surrender Verline and every registered asset connected to your company."

"Including the studio?"

"Including the studio."

"No appeals?"

"They can appeal the damages."

"They cannot appeal ownership."

For the first time in nearly a year, I allowed myself to breathe.

Verline was finally coming home.

Outside the courthouse, microphones waited.

Cameras flashed the moment I appeared.

"Mrs. Ashford!"

"Are you divorcing Damien because of the plagiarism allegations?"

"Did Mr. Ashford steal your company?"

"Do you have evidence against Ashford Holdings?"

Questions collided from every direction.

I stopped halfway down the courthouse steps.

"Today wasn't about revenge," I said calmly.

"It was about ownership."

"Verline belonged to me before I became Vivian Ashford."

"Today, the court simply remembered that."

I walked away before another question reached me.

My phone vibrated.

Rose.

"Madam," she whispered.

"They're removing the locks from the studio."

"Already?"

"Mr. Ashford gave the order himself."

"I'm on my way."

Half an hour later the gates of the Ashford estate opened.

Nobody stopped my car.

Even the guards avoided looking directly at me.

Inside, workers carried toolboxes down the east wing corridor.

The heavy mahogany studio door stood open.

Fresh screw holes marked where the electronic lock had been removed.

One worker stepped aside.

"Mrs. Ashford... we're finished."

"Thank you."

I entered slowly.

Dust floated through the afternoon sunlight.

The drafting tables remained exactly where I had left them.

The shelves were empty.

The cabinets still locked.

But the room no longer felt like a prison.

It felt abandoned.

I walked to the centre table.

My fingertips brushed the worn wood.

"Welcome home," I whispered.

A familiar voice answered behind me.

"It never stopped being yours."

I turned.

Damien stood quietly in the doorway.

He hadn't entered.

He simply watched.

"You don't have to pretend anymore," I said.

"I'm not pretending."

"Then why give it back now?"

"Because the court forced me."

He looked away.

"And because I should've never taken it."

Silence stretched between us.

"That's the closest thing to an apology I've heard from you," I said.

"I know."

"Too late?"

"Yes."

His shoulders lowered slightly.

"I figured."

He reached inside his jacket.

For one brief second every instinct in me tensed.

Instead of documents, he removed a small velvet box.

The same dark green velvet box I hadn't seen since my wedding.

He placed it on the drafting table.

"Your ring," he said quietly.

"I shouldn't have locked it away."

He stepped back.

He didn't ask me to open it.

He simply left.

The studio became silent once more.

I stared at the velvet box for several seconds before lifting the lid.

Inside rested the emerald engagement ring I had designed with my own hands.

It caught the afternoon light exactly as it had on the day he proposed.

Beneath the ring lay something unexpected.

A folded receipt.

Not from a jeweller.

From a locksmith.

Dated eleven months earlier.

Across the bottom Damien had written a single sentence.

"Return after she forgives me."

I closed the box without touching the ring.

Forgiveness wasn't something that waited inside velvet.

It had been buried long before the studio was locked.

Rose appeared quietly at the doorway.

"Madam... someone else came while you were in court."

"Who?"

"A woman."

"She asked whether the studio had been reopened."

"Did she leave her name?"

"No."

"Only this."

Rose handed me a cream-coloured envelope.

There was no address.

No stamp.

Only my name written in careful handwriting.

I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

Nathaniel stood beside another man outside a warehouse.

The date stamp matched one week before the accident.

The second man's face had been deliberately burned away.

Only his right hand remained visible.

On his little finger sat a distinctive silver ring engraved with a black raven.

The same raven symbol printed throughout the Hawthorne Project files.

Someone wanted me to see it.

Someone knew I had recovered the evidence.

And someone was reminding me...

The silent partner was still watching.