Chapter 6 - The Rerouting of the Grid
The winter of 2026 arrived in Chicago with a sudden, silent blanket of snow that turned the oak trees of our terrace into white, crystalline sculptures. The house in Oakwood Hills didn't look like an empty commercial asset anymore; it had been filled with my mother’s old pine furniture, rows of engineering books, and the constant, lively chatter of the Apex design team who had moved their regional studio into the lower pavilion.
It had been three months since the trial concluded. Ethan had accepted a plea agreement—eight years at the federal correctional facility in Oxford, Wisconsin, with full asset forfeiture of the remaining Calloway holdings to satisfy the restitution orders. Vanessa had been given three years of probation and a permanent ban from serving on any corporate board in the state of Illinois.
Beatrice Vance had turned state's evidence within forty-eight hours of the arrest, providing the federal prosecutors with the entire log of text messages and emails that Ethan had sent her detailing the plan to systematically gaslight me until I gave up the property rights.
I stood on the terrace, a mug of hot cider between my palms, watching the sun drop low over the distant skyline of the city. The snow was falling thick and slow, covering the gravel paths where Ethan had once walked with his hands full of neighborhood flowers.
"Emma," a voice called from the French doors behind me.
I turned to see David Vance—no relation to Beatrice, but a brilliant, young structural engineer my father had hired from the University of Illinois to take over the North River reconstruction project. He was wearing a thick wool sweater, a roll of blueprint paper tucked under his arm, his gray eyes bright with that quiet, uncorrupted enthusiasm that I had forgotten existed in the real estate market.
"The structural modifications for the green-roof array have been approved by the city council, Ms. Carter," David said, a slight, respectful smile touching his lips as he stepped out into the crisp air. "We can begin the foundation pour the first week of April. Your father said you wanted to review the final irrigation layouts before we print the master set."
May you like
I looked at the blueprints in his hand, then up at his face—at the honest, weathered lines around his eyes from spending his winters on construction cranes, and at the steady, unhurried strength of his posture. He knew exactly who I was from the day he started; he didn't care about the Carter name, but he had spent three hours the previous night explaining to me how we could use recycled limestone to save an old creek bed near the southern boundary of the property.
"Let's see them, David," I said, stepping back into the warm, yellow light of the living room, leaving the screen door open behind us.
