Chapter 10 - Clear Skies
One year later.
The air at thirty-eight thousand feet was smooth, crystal-clear, and endless.
Claire Vance sat in seat 1A of a Gulfstream G650, Vance Capital’s newly acquired long-range corporate jet.
On the mahogany table before her sat a flute of vintage Krug champagne, a porcelain plate of fresh raspberries, and the final closing prospectus for the Vance-Meridian Infrastructure Fund—a one-point-two-billion-dollar vehicle that Claire had spent the last nine months assembling as the newly appointed Chief Executive Officer of Montgomery & Vance (renamed simply *The Vance Group*).
The firm had never been stronger.
Without the dead weight of Ryan’s vanity and the constant drain of his incompetence, the investment committee had operated with lethal efficiency. Claire had recruited three of the sharpest young female portfolio managers in London and New York, restructuring the portfolio to focus on high-yield clean energy infrastructure.
Her phone vibrated against the table.
A text from Elena:
*Just left the courthouse. Final decree entered. You are officially, legally, and permanently unencumbered. Congratulations, Madam CEO.*
Claire smiled. A real smile. Rich, deep, and unburdened.
She took a sip of the champagne, the cold bubbles sharp and bright against her tongue.
She knew what had become of Ryan Montgomery. In Manhattan, gossip was the primary currency, and news traveled fast along the Metro-North line.
Ryan had avoided federal prison thanks to the restitution Vance Capital had accepted, but the Southern District’s investigation had been published in the *Wall Street Journal’s* legal digest. In the insular, hyper-reputational world of private equity, he was radioactive. No institutional fund would touch him; no boutique advisory firm would let him near their clients.
He was currently working as a mid-level mortgage originator for a secondary lender in Columbus, Ohio, living in a rented townhouse three miles from his parents’ house, driving a five-year-old Honda Accord, and spending his Friday nights drinking draft beer at an airport sports bar, telling anyone who would listen about the deals he used to close on Wall Street.
Chloe Martin had married an assistant lacrosse coach from her hometown, working as a receptionist at an auto dealership.
Neither of them would ever fly First Class again.
The Gulfstream’s cabin door opened, and David Sterling walked in.
David was thirty-six, the son of Arthur Davies’s long-time partner, but unlike the Davies dynasty, he had earned his doctorate in applied economics at MIT before building his own green-energy logistics firm. He was tall, lean, with warm grey eyes that held neither Ryan’s shallow vanity nor his insecure arrogance.
He had worked beside Claire for the last eight months, matching her work ethic, challenging her models, and never once flinching when her name appeared above his on the closing memos.
"We’re thirty minutes out from London," David said, setting a fresh pot of coffee on the console and sliding into the wide leather seat opposite hers. "The ground team says the weather at Farnborough is clear. Fifty degrees, slight breeze."
"Perfect," Claire said, looking at him with a warmth that was entirely new, entirely unthreatened.
David glanced at the tablet screen where Elena’s message was still visible.
He smiled softly. "Final decree?"
"Final decree," Claire affirmed.
David lifted his glass of sparkling water, his eyes meeting hers with an easy, steady reverence.
"To clear skies, Claire. And real partnerships."
Claire clinked her flute against his glass with a clear, bell-like ring that resonated through the quiet cabin.
"To clear skies."
She turned her head to look out the triple-glazed oval window.
Below the aircraft, the Atlantic Ocean stretched out like a carpet of deep, sapphire velvet, unbroken and magnificent. Ahead of them, the first golden rays of the European sunrise broke across the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of rose, gold, and incandescent white.
Claire took a deep breath.
The air in the cabin was fresh, pressurized, and completely clean.
May you like
She was no longer sitting in row fourteen. She was no longer watching someone else live her life from behind a navy polyester curtain.
She was the pilot of her own destiny, flying at forty thousand feet, and the view had never been more beautiful.
