Page 36 of The Vows He Buried
Then, I turned and walked away, leaving him kneeling in the ruins of the world he had built and the love he had buried.
Chapter 24: The Choice
Leaving Maddox kneeling in the Frick garden should have felt like a final, definitive victory. It was the closing scene of a tragedy, the antagonist brought to his knees, his power shattered, his heart offered up in a desperate, futile act of penance. I had walked away, leaving him in the ruins of the life he had destroyed. And yet, as the days turned into a week, a strange restlessness settled deep within my bones.
The war was won. Evelyn was facing a litany of federal charges that would keep her in a courtroom, and likely a prison cell, for the rest of her life. Sienna was entangled in her own legal nightmare, her pathetic blackmail attempt having backfired spectacularly. Vale Global was a carcass being picked apart by federal receivers. I had my freedom, my company, my name. But freedom, I was discovering, was a vast, open country, and I wasn't sure I knew how to navigate it yet. A single, invisible thread still connected me to the past, a filament so fine I could barely feel it, but it was there, tethering me to the wreckage.
The future arrived in a sleek, black portfolio delivered by a courier from the Zion Group. There was no letter, no card. Lucian Thorne did not deal in sentiment. He dealt in action.
Inside was a proposal, a document so beautiful, so audacious, it made my breath catch in my throat. It was a fully-realized business plan for the international launch of Heirloom Reclaimed. The centerpiece was the establishment of our first European atelier. The proposed location was not a sterile retail space in Paris or Milan. It was a restored 16th-century palazzo on the banks of the Arno river in Florence, a building Lucian’sluxury property division had apparently acquired months ago. The portfolio contained architectural renderings, budget projections, and a proposed timeline.
It was my original dream, the one I had whispered to myself as a young designer, the one I had sacrificed on the altar of my love for Maddox. And Lucian, in his quiet, all-seeing way, had known. He hadn't just been watching my war; he had been studying my history, excavating the dreams I had buried.
The proposal was a partnership. Zion Group would provide the capital, the infrastructure, the logistical might. I would provide the soul, the vision, the creative genius. He wasn’t offering me a gift; he was offering me an empire. Tucked into the back of the portfolio were two first-class, open-ended tickets to Florence. He was giving me the world, and he was letting me choose the day I wanted to claim it.
I sat at my table, surrounded by my own sketches, and stared at the renderings of the Florentine palazzo, its sun-drenched courtyard and frescoed ceilings. This was it. The culmination of everything I had fought for. The chance to step into a life of my own making, a life of beauty and creation, a world away from the ashes of New York.
So why did I feel this lingering hesitation?
It was Maddox.
My last image of him was of a broken man, kneeling in the dirt. It was his catharsis, his confession, his rock bottom. But it wasn't mine. I had walked away in silence, a queen leaving a vanquished foe. But a queen who walks away without speaking the final terms of surrender is a queen who is still, in some small way, tied to the war.
I realized then what the invisible thread was. It was hate. A cold, quiet, residual hate. It was the anchor that had kept me steady through the storm, but now, in the calm waters of my new life, it was threatening to keep me tethered to the harbor. I couldn't build a future in the sun-drenched studios of Florence while a part of my soul was still chained to a ghost in a New York mansion.
To be truly free, I had to let him go. And to let him go, I had to let go of the hatred. I needed one last conversation. Not for him. For me. I needed to look him in the eye and tell him it was over, not with anger, but with the quiet finality of indifference. I needed to grant him a pardon, not for his sake, but so that I would no longer have to be his jailer.
My hand was steady as I picked up my phone and dialed his number, the first time I had initiated contact since the night I left.
He answered on the first ring, his voice startled, hesitant. “Savannah?”
“Maddox,” I said, my voice calm, neutral. “I need to speak with you. One last time.”
A pause. “Anything,” he breathed. “Where?”
I considered my options. Not the penthouse; that was my sanctuary. Not a public place; this was too private. There was only one location that held the right kind of power, the right kind of ghosts. “Your house,” I said. “In an hour.”
Driving up the long, winding driveway to the Vale mansion was a surreal experience. The last time I had made this drive, I had been a prisoner returning to my cell. Now, I was a visitorfrom another world. The house, once a glittering monument to power, now looked like a mausoleum. The manicured lawns were slightly overgrown. The windows were dark, lifeless eyes.
The massive front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The air was cold, still, and smelled of dust and decay. The grand foyer, once filled with priceless art and fresh flowers, was now a cavern of shadows. Most of the furniture was covered in white dust sheets, giving the room the appearance of a ghostly, abandoned ballroom.
He was standing at the top of the grand staircase, the same spot where I had stood on the night of our anniversary, the night I had begun all of this. He was a silhouette against the dim light, a ghost in his own home.
He walked down to meet me, his steps slow, quiet. He was dressed simply, in dark trousers and a gray sweater. The haunted, broken look was still there, but it was quieter now, settled deep into his bones. It was the look of a man who had accepted his fate.
“The staff is gone,” he said, his voice a low murmur in the echoing silence. “It’s just me now.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said, and I was surprised to find that I meant it. Not sorry for her fate, but sorry for the pain it must cause him, despite everything.
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Don’t be. She is finally facing the consequences of a lifetime of her own choices. As am I.” He gestured to the shrouded furniture. “I’m selling everything. The house, the art, what’s left of the assets. The money will go into a victims’ compensation fund. It’s the only thing I can do.”
We stood in the vast, silent foyer, two strangers in the ruins of a shared life.
“I’m leaving, Maddox,” I said softly. “I’m moving to Florence. I’m opening my first atelier there.”
A genuine, unforced smile touched his lips. It was a sad, beautiful thing. “Florence,” he whispered. “You always wanted to go to Florence.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with a profound, quiet sorrow. “That’s good, Savannah. I’m happy for you. You deserve that. You deserve everything.”
This was the man I had once loved, the quiet, thoughtful man who had been buried under the weight of the Vale name. It was heartbreaking to finally see him again, now, when it was far too late.
