He wanted to go outside and apologize. He didn't. Because Derek was listening. Derek was always listening.
Allison stepped into the bathroom. She locked the door. She pulled out her phone and read the last message.
I'm three blocks away. Is he still outside?
She typed: Yes. There's a cop asking him to leave. Hurry.
The reply was instant. No one touches him.
Allison stared at those four words. She exhaled. She washed her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. And for the first time in 91 days, she felt like she had done the right thing by staying.
She walked back onto the floor. Derek was laughing at something Mrs. Holt had said. The staff was smiling. The store was beautiful. The music was soft. Everything was in its place.
Everything except justice.
But that was three blocks away and closing fast.
Outside, Benjamin heard it before he saw it. The low, heavy purr of a V12 engine. The kind of sound that doesn't hurry. The kind that arrives.
A Mercedes-Maybach turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue.
Benjamin straightened his coat. He smoothed the photograph one last time and slipped it into his breast pocket, over his heart.
The car pulled to the curb directly in front of Sterling and Hale. The officer on the sidewalk stood up straight. He looked at the car, then at Benjamin, then back at the car.
The rear door opened. A pair of polished oxfords touched the pavement. Then a hand gripped the doorframe. Strong, deliberate.
A man rose from the back seat and stood at full height on the sidewalk.
Nathan Wells. 45 years old, 6'2", dark navy suit cut so precisely it looked like it had been stitched onto his body. A Patek Philippe on his left wrist. Midnight blue dial. Calatrava collection. Ref 5227G.
The same watch Benjamin had asked to see.
Nathan's driver stayed in the car. No entourage, no assistant. Just him.
He didn't look at the store. He didn't look at the officer. He looked at the bench.
His father was sitting there with his hands folded on his lap, his worn coat buttoned to the top, his eyes steady and warm.
Nathan walked toward him, each step slower than the last. Not because he was hesitant. Because he was furious. And the only thing keeping that fury in check was the sight of his father's face.
He reached the bench. He knelt down on one knee, right there on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk, and took his father's hands.