I walked up to the main building, my legs feeling strangely light, the crunch of my boots on the gravel path sounding oddly loud.
As I approached the boardroom, the door opened and Steve Parish appeared, his face wreathed in a huge, relieved grin. He threw his arms around me, clapping me on the back with both hands. "Congratulations, son," he said, his voice booming. "You've earned it. Every last penny."
He led me into the boardroom. Jessica was standing by the window, her back to me, just as she had been when I first met her in her run-down office above the dry cleaner's in East London.
She turned, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She looked different. The weariness was gone. The uncertainty was gone. In its place was something sharper, something fiercer. She gave me a single, almost imperceptible nod. The warrior had gone to war. And she had won.
