Page 24 of The Vows He Buried
He had no answer. He just stared at me, his guilt a palpable presence in the room.
“And what about Sienna?” I pressed, my voice like a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting away his defenses. “Was that my fault, too? Was your affair with my best friend, in my own home, another way of ‘protecting’ me?”
He flinched, shame and self-loathing warring in his eyes. “I can’t explain that,” he whispered. “I don’t remember all of it. I think… I think she drugged me. But it doesn’t matter. I was there. I betrayed you. It is the single greatest regret of my life, and I will carry that shame until the day I die.”
He looked so broken, so utterly defeated. The man who had once ruled my world was now a ruin. But I felt no pity. His regret was a currency he was trying to use to buy my forgiveness, and I was no longer selling it.
“You didn’t fight for me, Maddox,” I said, the words a simple, devastating truth. “Not once. Not when your mother took my company. Not when she insulted me. Not when she isolated me from my own family. And not when I lost our baby. You stood by in silence. And now you think these words, this briefcase full of papers, can fix what your silence broke?”
I walked towards him, stopping on the other side of the island, the polished granite a cold, hard border between our two worlds.
He looked up at me, his eyes stripped bare, his last defenses crumbling. He was desperate. He reached for his last resort, the one question he believed still held power over me.
“Do you still love me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a raw, naked plea.
It was the question I had been waiting for. It was the final test. For three years, the answer to that question had been my secret shame, a painful, stubborn ember I couldn’t extinguish. But sitting by my father’s bedside, watching the man I truly loved fight for his life, had finally burned away the last vestiges of the girl who had loved Maddox Vale.
I looked at him, at the handsome face I had once adored, at the gray eyes I had once gotten lost in. And I felt… nothing. No anger. No pain. Just a vast, quiet emptiness. The space where my love for him used to be.
I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper, a final, intimate confidence between two strangers who had once shared a life.
“I used to,” I said softly. The admission was a ghost on my lips. “That’s what makes this so easy now.”
The hope in his eyes died. It didn’t just flicker; it was extinguished, instantly and completely, leaving behind a black, hollow void of utter despair. He understood. Hate is a fire, a connection. Indifference is the end of the universe.
He visibly crumpled, his shoulders slumping, his head bowing in defeat. He had lost. Not just the company, not just the legal battle, but the last, lingering ghost of what we had been.
“Please leave,” I said, my voice still quiet, but now laced with the cold finality of a judge’s sentence.
He didn't argue. He didn't plead. He simply nodded, a broken, jerky movement. He turned away from the island, leaving the briefcase, his failed peace offering, behind. He walked to the elevator, his steps heavy, the confident stride of the CEO replaced by the shuffle of a defeated man.
I watched him go. I watched as the steel doors slid shut, sealing him out of my home, out of my life, forever.
I stood alone in the silence of my penthouse, the city lights twinkling like a thousand distant, unfeeling stars. I didn't feel triumphant. I didn't feel sad. I felt… clean. The last ghost had been exorcised. The last chain had been broken.
I walked over to the island and looked down at the briefcase. With a decisive, final gesture, I pushed it off the edge. It hit the polished concrete floor with a loud, definitive thud, the sound of a closing door on a chapter of my life I would never reopen.
Chapter 17: The Auction
The Starlight Foundation Gala was the beating heart of New York’s philanthropic society, an annual spectacle where the city’s elite gathered to out-dress, out-bid, and out-maneuver one another under the guise of charity. The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was bathed in a soft, silvery light, the tables adorned with towering arrangements of white orchids and glittering crystal. It was another gilded cage, another stage for a performance. But tonight, I was not a performer. I was a sponsor.
I moved through the glittering crowd, a ghost of a different sort. Not the pale, submissive ghost of Savannah Vale, but the quiet, observant ghost of Savannah Blake, co-CEO of BlakeCore. My name, my real name, was on the patrons’ banner in the entryway. My company had written a seven-figure check to the foundation, a strategic move orchestrated by Jasper and me to solidify our new leadership and public image. It was a declaration that BlakeCore was stable, powerful, and under our firm control.
I wore a gown of my own design, a column of midnight-blue silk that was deceptively simple. It was elegant and severe, with a sharp, asymmetrical neckline. It wasn't designed to attract attention, but to command respect. It was the uniform of a woman who had come for business, not for show.
My confrontation with Maddox in the penthouse felt like a lifetime ago. The finality of my words—I used to. That’s what makes this so easy now—had been a cleansing fire, burning away the last, lingering tendrils of our shared history. I feltclean, as he’d said, but also keenly aware that every move I made was now on a public chessboard.
I saw Evelyn Vale across the room, holding court like a malevolent snow queen in a gown of silver sequins. She saw me, and her polite smile tightened at the edges, her eyes promising a cold war. I met her gaze for a brief moment, offering a small, serene nod of acknowledgement before turning away, a dismissal that I knew would infuriate her more than any overt confrontation.
The main event of the evening was the live auction, a chance for the city’s billionaires to peacock their wealth. I watched with a detached, cynical amusement as they bid absurd sums for week-long stays on private islands, vintage sports cars, and gaudy diamond necklaces. It was a vulgar display of ego, thinly veiled as philanthropy.
The auctioneer, a charismatic man with a slick smile and a rapid-fire delivery, was whipping the crowd into a frenzy. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the ballroom, “we come to a very special, one-of-a-kind item. A surprise addition to our program tonight, an opportunity that simply cannot be bought anywhere else!”
A murmur of anticipation went through the crowd.
“We’ve auctioned off trips, jewels, and cars,” the auctioneer continued, his smile widening. “But how about an evening with a true New York legend in the making? A woman whose strength, resilience, and style have made her the most talked-about name in the city. Ladies and gentlemen, we are offering a private dinner for two with the brilliant new co-CEO of BlakeCore, the future of fashion, the phoenix herself… Ms. Savannah Blake!”
A spotlight hit me.
