Chapter 4 - A Mother's Vow
Three days passed in a strange, suspended reality.
Inside the Vance penthouse, the world was insulated by triple-paned bulletproof glass, Italian marble, and an eerie, pervasive silence. Outside, winter gripped Manhattan in a vice of sleet and slate-gray clouds, but within these walls, the heating purred softly, and the scent of fresh lilies and sterilized medical supplies filled the air.
Dr. Bradley, an elderly physician whose loyalty to Elias Vance was unquestioned, tended to my wounds twice a day. The cuts across my back were stitching together into angry pink lines, and the deep bone-bruises on my ribs had faded to an ugly mottled yellow. My body was healing, but the phantom pain of that night—the freezing slush, the sound of my husband’s voice sneering *they're garbage*—refused to leave my mind.
I spent every waking hour between the two cribs. I had named them formally on the medical records Dr. Bradley kept in his private database: Nora, with a faint dusting of dark hair like mine, and Hazel, whose eyes were turning a striking, sharp green. Every time they stirred, every time they let out a hungry whimper, I was there, nursing them, holding them, murmuring promises against their soft scalps.
*No one will ever hurt you again,* I swore silently into their skin. *I will burn the world down before I let a man make you feel small.*
On the fourth morning, I finally refused the wheelchair. Wrapping myself in an oversized cream-colored cashmere sweater that Elias’s staff had placed in the wardrobe, I walked out into the vast open-concept living area.
Marcus was sitting at the breakfast island, cleaning the disassembled slide of a Glock. Across the room, Elias stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a cup of black coffee in his hand, looking down at the crawling yellow cabs seventy stories below.
When the soft pad of my bare feet touched the rug, Elias turned. His eyes swept over me in a single, assessing glance. The coldness in his demeanor didn't vanish, but it shifted, softening around the edges in a way that Marcus clearly noticed, based on how the guard discreetly averted his gaze.
"You should be resting," Elias said.
"I have rested enough, Mr. Vance," I replied, my voice clearer and stronger than it had been since the night I was discarded. "Lying in bed makes me feel like a patient. Or a prisoner."
"You are neither," Elias said smoothly, gesturing toward the kitchen counter where a plate of fresh fruit, warm pastries, and eggs was laid out. "Sit. Eat."
I didn't sit. I walked to the edge of the counter, keeping my spine straight despite the dull ache in my back. "I saw the news this morning on the television in the bedroom. Julian was on the morning broadcast."
Elias’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He set his coffee cup down on the granite counter with a muted click. "He is staging a public tragedy."
"He told the anchors that I suffered from severe postpartum psychosis," I said, a bitter laugh tearing from my throat. "He said I took the babies in the middle of the night, wandered into the storm, and that he feared I had been abducted by traffickers. He cried on camera, Elias. He had a handkerchief. The entire city of New York is praying for the safe return of Julian Croft’s innocent family."
"It’s an offensive strategy," Marcus interjected, not looking up from his weapon. "Croft knows Foley failed. He knows Foley won't dare speak against Vance, but Croft is cornered. By making it a national news story, he thinks he’s building a shield around himself. He thinks Elias won't strike him while every camera in the tri-state area is watching."
"He thinks wrong," Elias said coldly.
I took a step toward Elias, closing the distance between us. The man was nearly a foot taller than me, an imposing mountain of muscle and controlled violence, yet for the first time in my life, standing before a powerful man didn't make me want to cower. It made me want to fight.
"Julian is hosting a charity gala tomorrow night," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "The Children’s Health Foundation at the Plaza Hotel. He was named co-chair six months ago. He won't cancel it. In fact, he’ll use it as the ultimate stage to play the grieving, heartbroken father. He’ll collect donations, he’ll shake hands with the district attorney, and he’ll secure his alibi."
Elias looked at me intently, his amber eyes reflecting the sharp winter light. "You know this because?"
"Because I helped plan the seating chart before he threw me away," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "I know the donors. I know the security firm he hired. And more importantly, I know which safe in that brownstone holds the ledgers detailing his stolen funds from the Chicago Rossi family."
Marcus paused his cleaning, his hands hovering over the gun parts. He looked up at me, clearly shocked by the venom in my voice.
"You want to go back there," Elias stated, not as a question, but as a realization.
"No," I replied, stepping directly into his personal space, looking straight up into his eyes. "I don't want to go back to that house. I want to destroy it. I want to walk into that ballroom tomorrow night, in front of the cameras, in front of the press, in front of the men who bought his lies, and I want to rip the mask off his face myself."
Elias didn't speak for a long moment. He studied my face, tracing the fading yellow bruise along my jawline, noting the fierce, unbroken fire burning in my gaze. Most men would have laughed at the idea of a beaten, traumatized woman attempting to bring down a connected financier. Most men would have told me to stay in the nursery and be grateful for my survival.
Instead, Elias Vance leaned down slightly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, thrilling murmur.
"If you walk into that ballroom, Ava, there is no retreating into the shadows. You become a player in this war. And everyone who sees you standing beside me will know you belong to my world."
"I was dead the moment he left me under that overpass," I said, my voice unwavering. "I don't care about the shadows anymore, Elias. Teach me how to make him bleed."
A slow, predatory smirk touched Elias’s lips. It was breathtakingly lethal.
May you like
"Marcus," Elias ordered, his eyes never leaving mine. "Call Madame Laurent. Tell her to bring her finest evening gowns to the penthouse. And contact our tactical team. Tomorrow night, we attend the Plaza."
***
