Page 12 of The Vows He Buried
The rage returned, but it was different now. It was colder, sharper, more focused. The emotional chaos began to recede, replaced by the crystalline clarity of a legal strategy. This changed everything. This wasn't a messy divorce anymore. This was an annulment. A clean, surgical severance. And potentially, a massive fraud case against Evelyn Vale.
I knew I couldn't stay here, in this house full of memories of the girl I was. I needed my own space. A command center. A place untouched by the Blakes’ loving concern or the Vales’ toxic influence.
There was only one such place.
“I’m moving out,” I announced downstairs an hour later.
My father and Jasper looked up from the legal documents spread across the study desk.
“Out? Vannah, you just got here. You’re safe here,” my father said, his voice laced with concern.
“I know. And I’m grateful, more than you know,” I said, meeting his gaze. “But this is my fight. I can’t wage it from my childhood bedroom. I need my own ground.”
“Where will you go?” Jasper asked, though I could see in his eyes that he already knew.
“The penthouse,” I said. “It’s time to go home.”
The Zion Suites penthouse was the only major asset I had insisted on keeping solely in my name before the “wedding.” Itwas a lavish, extravagant purchase for a twenty-five-year-old, but it had been my declaration of independence, bought with the first significant profits from Lynelle. It was a fortress in the sky, a place Maddox had visited only once and deemed “too modern, too cold.” In other words, it was too muchme. For three years, it had sat dormant, a ghost of a life I might have lived, managed and maintained by a discreet building staff paid for by a trust account Harper oversaw.
Jasper drove me into the city himself. We didn't talk much on the ride. He understood my need for silence, for space to let the aftershocks of the revelation settle. When we pulled up to the sleek, black-glass entrance of Zion Suites, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years: anticipation.
The lobby was a masterpiece of minimalist design—soaring ceilings, white marble, and a single, stunning abstract sculpture. The air smelled of clean, empty space. The concierge, a man with a polite, professional smile, recognized me instantly.
“Welcome back, Ms. Blake,” he said, as if I had only been gone for the weekend. “Your apartment is ready. Ms. Lin was here this morning to ensure everything was in order.”
Harper. Of course.
The private elevator opened directly into my apartment, and I stepped out into the light. The penthouse was a two-story glass box perched atop Manhattan, with a panoramic view that stretched from the Hudson to the East River. The afternoon sun streamed in, illuminating the open-plan living space. It was exactly as I remembered it. White walls, polished concrete floors, and minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and gray. My art collection—bold, challenging pieces I had collected fromemerging artists—hung on the walls. My baby grand piano stood in a corner, its black lacquer gleaming.
This was not a home designed for a corporate wife. This was the home of an artist, a free spirit. It was the antithesis of the Vale mansion’s oppressive, antique-filled rooms. Here, I could breathe.
“It’s good to have you back where you belong,” Jasper said, taking in the space.
“It’s good to be back,” I agreed. This wasn't a retreat. This was a reclamation. This was my war room.
After Jasper left, promising to have my things sent over, I explored my own home. I ran a hand over the cool marble of the kitchen island, trailed my fingers over the keys of the piano, stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows and watched the city pulse with life below. This was my kingdom. And from this fortress, I would launch my attack.
That evening, the sky opened up. A torrential, mid-autumn storm swept over the city, rain lashing against the vast windows, thunder rumbling in the distance. The city lights blurred into a watercolor wash of neon and gold. I was curled up on the large gray sofa, my laptop open, a glass of wine in hand, strategizing with Harper over a secure video call. The divorce petition had been filed. The annulment proceedings were being drafted. The Vales had been served. The first shot had been fired.
“The media is going to have a field day with this,” Harper said, her face glowing on the screen. “'Billion-dollar marriage a fraud?' It’s the headline of the century.”
“Let them,” I said. “Evelyn built her world on public perception. It’s time to tear it down with the same tools.”
We were deep in discussion about the relaunch of Lynelle when the chime of the elevator echoed through the apartment.
My blood ran cold. No one could come up without being announced by the concierge. No one.
“I have to go,” I said to Harper, quickly ending the call.
I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs. I walked slowly towards the elevator, my bare feet silent on the concrete floor. The brushed steel doors slid open with a soft hiss.
And there he was.
Maddox.
He was drenched. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and his expensive suit was soaked through, clinging to his powerful frame. He wasn’t wearing a coat. He looked like he had walked through the heart of the storm to get here. The arrogant, untouchable CEO was gone. In his place was a man who looked lost, broken, and utterly desperate. It was the first time I had ever seen him look truly vulnerable.
He just stood there, in the elevator, water dripping from him onto the pristine floor. He didn’t step out. He just stared at me, his gray eyes a maelstrom of emotions I couldn’t begin to decipher.
