One year later, in Westbrook.
Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my spacious apartment, and the faint aroma of coffee lingered in the air. I stood before the mirror, smoothing my immaculate charcoal suit. The woman in the reflection wore her hair short and neat, her expression calm and composed.
I was no longer the mafia's caged bird, waiting at the estate for a husband who might never come home, afraid even to raise my voice. With Winni's help, I had built a clean identity and joined a top investment firm. My instincts and hard work had carried me to senior analyst in just one year.
At a strategy meeting that morning, I faced dozens of seasoned investors and clients and laid out my analysis of the latest market trends without a hint of nerves.
"The proje
