Alistair didn't follow her. He stood in the doorway of that empty, leaking apartment and realized that his wealth was a wall he had built himself.
Years passed. Alistair became the CEO everyone expected him to be. He married a woman of "appropriate standing," a cold, elegant arrangement that looked beautiful in photographs. He was richer than ever, his influence spanning continents.
One afternoon, while walking through a small, independent gallery in Paris—a rare moment of solitude away from his security detail—he stopped dead.
On the far wall hung a single painting. It was a view of the London skyline from a rooftop, rendered in messy, vibrant, defiant strokes of gold and violet. In the corner, almost invisible, were two tiny figures: a man in a suit and a girl with a paintbrush, holding hands as if they could hold back the tide.
The tag next to the painting read: The Gilded Cage. Status: Sold.
Alistair stood before it for a long time. He could have bought the gallery. He could have hired private investigators to find her. He could have used his billions to bridge the gap. But as he looked at the painting, he realized Saffron was finally free. She was a world-renowned artist, living the life she had earned, not the one he had tried to buy for her.
He turned away, his hand brushing the silk lining of his overcoat. He walked out into the rain, back to his driver and his boardrooms, a man who had everything and possessed nothing at all.