Chapter 7 - Spring in the Green MountainsSix months later.
The morning sun over Stowe, Vermont, broke through the crisp mountain air, casting long, golden fingers of light across the wraparound porch of a restored, historic farmhouse nestled at the edge of the woods.
The air smelled of pine needles, damp earth, and the sweet promise of maple sap beginning to flow.
I sat at a rustic oak desk facing the large picture window, a cup of steaming herbal tea resting beside my laptop. On the music stand to my left rested a clean, freshly printed score, my name printed proudly at the top: Rose Delaney – Symphonic Suite No. 2.
Wait.
I smiled softly to myself, reaching out to correct the name on the digital title page back to its true legal form: Claire Russo-Delaney.
Some ghosts you don't bury; you integrate them into your story.
My life no longer belonged to glass chandeliers, Chicago mob wars, or men who measured my worth by how well I blended into their background. Whitfield Meridian Group and my independent consulting firm were thriving across the East Coast, and my brother Noah had just graduated top of his class at Dartmouth.
My phone buzzed gently on the desk.
I picked it up. A notification flashed across the screen from an unknown courier service in Chicago: Delivered to front desk.
Frowning, I walked down the wooden stairs to the farmhouse porch. Resting on the wooden rocking chair was a simple, elegant black velvet box tied with a thin gold ribbon.
My breath caught in my throat.
I carried the box inside, placed it on the kitchen island, and carefully untied the ribbon.
Inside wasn't a cake, and it wasn't a threat.
It was a single, pristine red silk dress—the exact one I had worn the night I walked into Adrian Cross’s party and shattered my old life.
Beneath the dress rested a handwritten note in familiar, sharp, elegant cursive:
“A queen doesn't belong in a cage, and she certainly doesn't belong in the mountains wearing gray. But if you ever decide to visit Chicago again, know that the gates are unlocked, and the king is still waiting to earn your crown. — D.”
I stared at the note for a long time, feeling a warm, familiar thrum of electricity race through my veins.
I didn't throw the dress away this time. I hung it up in the center of my new closet, right beside my writing suits.
May you like
Then I walked back to my desk, looked out at the endless green expanse of the mountains where the last remnants of winter snow were melting away into rushing silver streams, and smiled.
Let him wait. I had an empire of my own to build first.
