Page 38 of The Vows He Buried
Then came the final, brutal stroke. “Therefore,” she announced, her eyes boring into the camera, a direct message to me across the ocean, “we are filing a one-hundred-million-dollar civil suit against Savannah Blake for defamation, corporate espionage, and damages. We will prove, in a court of law, the true nature of her character and the depth of her deception. My son, Maddox, has agreed to testify. He will tell the world the truth.”
It was a brilliant, despicable move. She was trying to reframe the entire narrative, to turn my legal victory into a he-said, she-said drama. She was using her last remaining weapon—her son—to try and destroy my credibility before her own criminal trial could even begin.
The old me would have been terrified, devastated. But the woman watching the screen from a sunlit studio in Florence felt only a profound, weary sense of pity. It was the last, pathetic roar of a dying queen.
“We fight back, hard,” Harper was saying, her voice a furious buzz in my ear. “We file for a dismissal, we countersue for malicious prosecution…”
“No,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. I closed the laptop, shutting out Evelyn’s venomous face. “We do nothing.”
“Vannah, what are you talking about? We can’t let her get away with this!”
“She’s not going to get away with anything, Harper,” I said. I walked to the large window overlooking the Arno, the gentle, timeless flow of the river a calming presence. “This isn’t a legalbattle anymore. It’s a public relations game. And she’s playing it on a board I no longer occupy. My answer isn’t a lawsuit. My answer is my work.”
Three days later, the fashion world descended on our Florentine palazzo. The courtyard was transformed into an ethereal runway, lit by hundreds of candles and the soft glow of the Tuscan twilight. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine and the hushed, expectant whispers of the industry’s most powerful voices.
I did not give a speech. I did not address the scandal. I let the clothes speak for me.
The Heirloom Reclaimed launch collection was a story. It began with pieces in soft, vulnerable shades of cream and blush, beautifully constructed but with restrictive, binding details—a hint of the gilded cage. As the show progressed, the colors deepened, the silhouettes sharpened. The fabrics became richer, more defiant—deep emeralds, blood reds, midnight blues. The final piece was a breathtaking gown of black silk, embroidered with silver thread that looked like healed scars, a testament to a beauty not just found in perfection, but in survival. It was my story, stitched into every seam.
The show ended not with me taking a bow, but with a simple, powerful image projected onto the ancient stone wall: a photograph of my grandmother’s sapphire ring on my hand. Below it, the words:She’s her own legacy.
The response was not just applause; it was a roar. It was a standing ovation that went on and on, a wave of emotional, visceral support. The editors and buyers didn’t just see a collection; they saw a narrative of resilience, of a womanreclaiming her power and her voice through her art. They understood. In the face of Evelyn’s ugly war of words, I had responded with a symphony of beauty and strength.
Lucian was there, standing quietly in the shadows at the back of the courtyard. He had been a silent, constant presence all week, his support unwavering but never intrusive. He sought me out after the show, as I was accepting the tearful congratulations of a legendary fashion critic.
He didn’t offer praise for the clothes. He simply met my gaze, his storm-gray eyes filled with a deep, profound respect. “They can no longer touch you, Savannah,” he said, his voice a low, certain rumble. “You’ve built a world they can’t even comprehend, let alone attack.”
He was right. But the final act of the old world’s drama still had to play out.
While I was celebrating in Florence, Lucian’s own game was unfolding in New York. He had, as he’d promised, unleashed his own legal team. They didn’t just file for a dismissal of Evelyn’s suit. They filed a federal motion to have her bail revoked, arguing that her frivolous, defamatory lawsuit constituted a blatant attempt at witness tampering and obstruction of justice in her ongoing criminal case.
The final move, however, belonged to Maddox.
He was called to give a deposition in Evelyn’s civil suit. Her lawyers, confident in his loyalty, expected him to corroborate her story, to paint me as the unstable, vindictive villain. They sat him down in a sterile conference room, a court reporter ready to transcribe his testimony.
I watched a leaked video of it later. Maddox looked calm, composed, the ghost of the powerful CEO back in his eyes. But it was a different kind of power now. It was not the power of his name or his wealth. It was the quiet, unshakeable power of a man who has nothing left to lose and has finally decided to tell the truth.
“Mr. Vale,” one of Evelyn’s lawyers began, “can you please describe for the court the nature of your marriage to Savannah Blake?”
Maddox looked directly into the camera. “My marriage to Savannah Blake,” he said, his voice clear and steady, “was a sham. Not because of her, but because of me. I was a coward who allowed my wife to be systematically abused, isolated, and poisoned by my own mother. I stood by in silence while a crime was committed against her and against our unborn child.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. Evelyn’s lawyers stared at him, their faces masks of horror.
“Are you saying you support Ms. Blake’s claims?” a lawyer finally stammered.
“I’m saying her claims are the truth,” Maddox replied. “And my mother’s lawsuit is a pathetic, desperate lie, designed to silence a victim she could no longer control. I will not be a party to it. I will not be her weapon.”
He stood up, his testimony finished. He looked directly at his mother’s lead counsel. “You can tell my mother this,” he said, his voice ringing with the finality of a death knell. “Savannah may have buried the vows we made, but I buried myself the day I let her go. My testimony ends here. The rest of my story will be told on a federal witness stand, under oath.”
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving a trail of legal wreckage in his wake.
Evelyn’s case imploded. Her last gamble had failed spectacularly. Her own son had become the star witness for the prosecution against her.
The end came swiftly. Two days later, as Evelyn was leaving a preliminary hearing, flanked by her shell-shocked lawyers, two federal marshals approached her on the courthouse steps. The press cameras flashed, capturing her look of utter, disbelieving fury as they informed her she was being taken into custody for witness tampering and obstruction of justice.
Her eyes, wild and desperate, scanned the crowd of reporters, as if searching for me, her final nemesis. But I wasn't there. I was thousands of miles away, in a sunlit studio in Florence, sketching a new design, my back turned to the past, my face to the future. She had lost. Her game was over. And she was utterly, finally, powerless.
Chapter 26: The Confession
