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The collapse of Callaway Holdings sent shockwaves through the financial corridors of the South. Within seventy-two hours of the boardroom surrender, the corporate name was officially removed from the building's glass facade, replaced by the temporary designation Nadeir Commercial Properties.

Preston Callaway retreated to his private estate in Buckhead—a sprawling mansion that was already under audit by federal bank examiners—his political influence completely liquidated overnight.

Weston, stripped of his vice-presidential salary, his corporate expense accounts, and his luxury company vehicle, was forced out of his executive tower penthouse.

On a rainy Thursday afternoon, five days after Marlo’s birth, I sat in the high-ceilinged corner office on the sixtieth floor—the office that had once belonged to Preston Callaway.

The heavy, dark traditional decor had been cleared out, replaced by minimalist, sunlit furniture and broad glass drafting tables. Beside my desk, a beautiful wooden bassinet held little Marlo, who was fast asleep after nursing.

A soft knock echoed at the frosted glass doors. Josephine walked in, accompanied by a young woman wearing a sleek trench coat.

It was Camille.

She looked entirely different from the polished, untouchable executive assistant who had stood behind Weston at company dinners. Her eyes were bloodshot, her dark hair pulled back into an hasty, unstyled tail, and her hands clutches a faded leather handbag.

She walked into the office hesitantly, her eyes darting nervously toward the sleeping baby in the bassinet before locking onto me.

“You asked to see me, Sable?” Camille asked, her voice raspy, completely stripped of her former arrogance.

“Sit down, Camille,” I said, gesturing to the comfortable armchair across from my desk.

Camille sat down slowly, edge of the seat, holding her bag tightly in her lap.

“I received a filing from your attorney this morning,” Josephine stated, opening a folder on my desk. “You are requesting a five-hundred-thousand-dollar lump-sum settlement from the Callaway corporate welfare fund on behalf of your infant son.”

Camille swallowed hard, looking at me with a mixture of desperation and lingering pride. “Weston promised me... he promised that our son would be taken care of. He promised that his family would provide a trust fund! Now he isn't answering my calls! His phone line was disconnected yesterday! He’s staying in his parents' guest house, and Adele won't even let me through the front gate!”

I leaned back in my chair, looking at her with a quiet, observant grace.

“Camille,” I said softly, “did you honestly believe that a family like the Callaways—a family that was willing to disinherit their own legitimate granddaughter two hours after she was born—would treat you and your son with genuine honor?”

Camille lowered her head, a single tear spilling over her eyelashes and tracing a path down her cheek.

“Weston told me he loved me,” Camille whispered, her voice cracking. “He told me his marriage to you was just a corporate arrangement... that his parents forced him into it for public relations. He said that once his son was born, everything would change.”

“Weston lied to you, Camille,” I said flatly. “Just like he lied to me. Just like he lied to his board, his bank, and his investors. Weston Callaway is a man who consumes people until they are no longer useful to his vanity, and then he casts them aside.”

Camille wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looking up at me desperately. “I have a four-month-old baby, Sable. I was fired from my position here three days ago when the new management took over. I have rent due on my apartment, and I can't afford the legal fees to fight Weston for child support.”

I looked at the folder on my desk. Inside was a comprehensive background report Marcus had compiled on Camille.

She wasn't a mastermind. She was a young woman from a small town who had been seduced by Weston’s money, his false promises of high-society status, and his toxic charm, allowing herself to become an accomplice in his cruelty.

“The Callaway corporate welfare fund no longer exists,” I informed her smoothly. “And the Nadeir Trust is under no legal obligation to pay you a single dollar.”

Camille’s shoulders collapsed, her face pale with utter defeat.

“However,” I continued, drawing her attention back, “I am establishing a private education trust for your son. It will cover his medical care, his schooling, and his living expenses directly until he turns eighteen. The money will be managed by an independent third-party guardian, completely separate from Weston or the Callaway family.”

Camille stared at me, her mouth open in absolute shock. “You... you’re creating a trust for my son? After everything I did to you?”

“Your son is innocent, Camille,” I said, looking over at Marlo sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. “He didn't choose his father, just like Marlo didn't choose hers. I will not allow a child to suffer because his father is a coward.”

Camille broke down entirely, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept tears of overwhelming relief and profound shame.

“There are conditions,” Josephine added firmly, stepping forward. “You will sign a full legal affidavit detailing every transaction, every secret account, and every corporate document Weston instructed you to falsify during your time as his assistant. Your testimony will be delivered to the Federal District Court tomorrow.”