Chapter 10: The Portrait in the Hall
One year later, the grand gallery of the Duluth estate was flooded with the warm, amber light of a midsummer afternoon.
The heavy velvet curtains that had once blocked the sun from the north wing were permanently gone. In their place, tall glass doors opened onto a restored terrace overlooking the glittering blue expanse of Lake Superior—the exact spot where Lorelei Durham had once stood.
Inside the gallery, sixty guests stood with champagne glasses raised. They were not the whispering parasites from Saint Jude's Cathedral; they were board members of the newly merged Nelson-Durham Heritage Foundation, scholarship recipients from Saint Paul, and federal investigators who had helped dismantle Emmett Durham's syndicate.
At the center of the room, hanging proudly above the marble fireplace, was Lorelei’s restored portrait.
Below it stood Rosalie.
She wore a sleeveless emerald gown that left the silvered scars along her shoulders and wrists entirely uncovered. Her dark hair was styled back from her face, displaying the rich, wine-colored mark that swept from her cheek down to her collarbone—no longer a brand of shame, but the distinct, unmistakable feature of a woman who owned her world.
Manuel stood at her side, his arm wrapped securely around her waist as he raised his glass to the room.
"To Lorelei," Manuel said, his voice carrying clearly over the murmur of the crowd. "Who left us the key to the truth."
"To Lorelei," the room echoed.
As the guests drifted toward the terrace, Arthur Vance approached them, holding a fresh crystal glass and looking younger than he had in a decade.
"Crawford took the plea deal this morning," Arthur noted with a grim, satisfied smirk. "Seven years at Sandstone. And your father's appeal was denied by the Circuit Court. He's staying in maximum security until the end."
Rosalie took a sip of her champagne, looking out over the water where the afternoon sun caught the whitecaps.
"Let him stay there," she said calmly. "We have work to do here."
Arthur nodded respectfully, tapping his glass against Manuel's before stepping away to join the conversation on the lawn.
Manuel turned to Rosalie, his eyes catching the light from the lake. He reached out and gently adjusted the antique silver bracelet resting on her right wrist—her mother's bracelet, finally worn in the sunlight.
"How does it feel?" he asked softly.
May you like
Rosalie looked around the bright, open room, at the people who looked at her with genuine respect, and then back at the man who had seen her scars on their wedding night and chose to fight beside her instead of turning away.
"It feels," Rosalie whispered, resting her head against his shoulder, "like mine."
