The immediate aftermath of the Paris decision was a whirlwind. Rhys and Melanie, fueled by their shared conviction, used the secure connection from the dead-drop apartment to initiate the leak.
The Sterling memo and supporting documents, proving the firm's calculated corruption, were packaged and sent anonymously to the financial press and regulatory bodies. They didn't watch the fallout; they fled.
Melanie, now a Northwood alumna with five years of brutal, high-level corporate experience earned under Rhys's mentorship, moved with the same practiced swiftness as her partner. They left the apartment hours later, taking no luggage, moving like people escaping a bomb site. They didn't return to the U.S. They rented a nondescript, temporary flat in the Marais district of Paris—a temporary safe haven until the financial world exploded and settled.
For the first forty-eight hours, they were inseparable, the high adrenaline of the corporate war giving way to a consuming, personal relief. They talked for hours, building a verbal map of their shared future, solidifying the choice they had made to prioritize their integrity. The passion they shared was a declaration of war against Chloe's cynicism and the firm's corruption.
"We burned down the bad history," Melanie murmured late on the second night, her head resting on his chest, tracing the line of his jaw. "We are free now. What do we do with it?"
Rhys shifted, turning to face her fully. The soft Parisian moonlight streamed through the window, catching the renewed clarity in her eyes. "We start over," he promised, his voice low and serious. "We build a consulting practice. No high-finance blood money. Just us." He paused, his thumb gently caressing her bare shoulder. "I had a moment in the car, leaving the dead drop. Thinking about everything we fought through. You deserve more than a desperate partnership, Melanie. You finished Northwood, you beat Chloe, you saved my soul. I don't want a partner, I want a future."
He reached for the simple silver watch he always kept on the bedside table, a piece of old family history, but his fingers didn't stop there. He reached lower, to a hidden compartment in the drawer, retrieving a small, velvet box he had bought months ago but never dared to open.
"I need to be sure," he murmured, his gaze intense, "that when we rebuild everything, the foundation is permanent. After all that deceit, I need the absolute truth of a commitment." He opened the box, revealing a classic, understated diamond. "I don't just want you by my side for a few years, Melanie. I want you to be my forever. I want to build a life where our names are inseparable, legally and morally. Will you marry me?"
Melanie's eyes welled instantly, the shock of the question eclipsing the chaos of the last week. "Yes, Rhys. Absolutely yes."
The ring slid onto her finger, a quiet, profound vow sealed in their temporary Parisian refuge. She was now, officially, his fiancée. This wasn't just a reconciliation; it was a total reconstruction.
The next morning, the urgency remained. Rhys, energized by their engagement, stepped out to buy coffee and local papers, eager to see the full, glorious detonation of the Sterling scandal.
The small, charming café near the Place des Vosges was bustling. Rhys walked in, ordered two coffees, and picked up the financial daily screaming about the Sterling scandal. He was momentarily lost in the headlines—Kallen Capital Chairman Indicted, Fraudulent Deals Exposed—a validation of their sacrifice.
He turned from the counter and froze.
Sitting at a small table was Eliza Moreau, the passionate art history major from his Sorbonne year, her face shifting from quiet concentration to stunned recognition. The sight of her was a shockwave from a life he thought he had completely buried.
"Eliza?" he breathed, dropping the papers. The noise of the city seemed to vanish.
"Rhys Kallen," she replied, her voice carrying a trace of the old familiarity. "I can't believe it. What are you doing in Paris?"
They exchanged brief, charged pleasantries about her successful lecture circuit and his recent escape from high finance. He noticed her eyes held a new depth of wariness, and her usually vibrant energy seemed strained. He felt the weight of his new commitment to Melanie, a sudden, sharp pang of guilt for his past carelessness.
"I need to get back to my fiancée," Rhys said, already trying to extract himself, feeling the intense pressure of the past weeks pushing him back toward Melanie. "But give me your number."
Eliza reached into her bag. She didn't pull out a phone, but a worn leather wallet. She extracted a photograph: a bright, slightly blurred snapshot of a smiling boy with intense, dark eyes and a shock of wheat-blond hair. He was an attractive child, full of life.
She laid the photo gently on the table.
"We can catch up, Rhys," Eliza said, her tone suddenly heavy with manufactured gravity. "But there's something you need to know first. This is Gabriel. He turned seven this past summer."
She paused, letting the weight of the moment crush him.
"He's your son."
The words were a physical blow. Rhys stared at the photo, then at the calendar in his mind. Seven years ago. Nine months after their affair. The timing was surgically precise. Rhys's heart hammered not with recognition, but with profound guilt—guilt that he had never known, guilt that he had unknowingly abandoned a woman and a child. The foundation he and Melanie had just promised to build together had instantly developed a catastrophic crack.