Page 26 of The Vows He Buried
I walked calmly, deliberately, towards the stage. I didn't ask for a microphone. I didn't need one. I stood at the edge of the stage and addressed the silent, waiting room.
“I want to thank you all for your… enthusiastic interest,” I began, my voice even and cool. “And I want to thank Mr. Vale and Mr. Thorne for their extraordinary generosity towards the Starlight Foundation.”
I paused, letting my gaze drift from Maddox’s furious, humiliated face to Lucian’s unreadable, watchful one.
“I am, and always will be, a passionate supporter of this foundation and the incredible work it does,” I continued. “However, I was not aware that I was to be included on the list of auction items tonight.”
I let that sink in, a subtle indictment of the organizers, and of Evelyn.
“And while I am deeply flattered,” I said, my voice dropping slightly, laced with an unmistakable edge of steel, “I must respectfully withdraw.”
A shocked murmur went through the crowd.
I held up a hand, and they fell silent again.
“My father taught me many things,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound power. “He taught me the value of hard work, the importance of integrity, and the price of a company’s stock. But the one thing he never taught me was my own price. Because he knew it was something that could not be bought.”
I looked out at the sea of wealthy, powerful faces.
“My time is not for sale. My company is not for sale.” My gaze finally landed on Maddox, a final, definitive blow. “And I am not for sale.”
I turned to the stunned auctioneer. “I will, however, be personally matching the final bid of one million dollars as a donation to the foundation.”
It was the ultimate power move. I had refused to be sold, asserted my own value, and demonstrated a level of wealth and autonomy that eclipsed their entire pathetic spectacle.
Without another word, I turned my back on the stage, on the two men who had tried to buy me, on the entire shocked and silent assembly. I walked, my head held high, through the parted sea of guests and straight out of the ballroom doors, leaving behind the wreckage of their game.
I didn’t belong to anyone tonight. I didn’t belong to anyone ever again. I belonged to myself. And I was priceless.
Chapter 18: The Wake-Up
Sleep, when it finally came in the deep, silent hours of the morning, was not a refuge. It was a trapdoor into a past I could not escape.
I was floating in a warm, quiet space, a place of profound peace. There was no anger here, no grief, no need for armor. There was only a gentle, rhythmic sound, a soft, steady beat that resonated through my entire being.Thump-thump. Thump-thump.It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. It was the sound of life.
A small, warm weight settled against my chest. I looked down, but the image was hazy, like looking through frosted glass. I could see the shape of a tiny body, curled in perfect contentment. A small hand, with impossibly perfect, miniature fingers, reached up, its touch a phantom caress against my cheek.
Mama.
The word wasn't spoken aloud. It was a thought, a feeling, imprinted directly onto my soul. A wave of love so fierce, so primal and all-encompassing, washed over me, threatening to drown me in its intensity. This was it. This was the one pure, true thing in my life. My child.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound was my anchor, my universe. I held the small, warm body closer, burying my face in the imagined scent of baby powder and pure innocence. I was whole. I was complete.
Then, the warmth began to recede. A chill crept into the peaceful space, a cold draft smelling of gardenias and deceit. The steady, rhythmic beating faltered, becoming frantic, then weak.
Thump… thump… th…
The image of my child began to dissolve, fading into a cold, gray mist. I clutched at the dissipating form, a scream tearing from my throat, but no sound came out. The small hand slipped from my cheek. The mist swirled, and for a fleeting, horrifying moment, it coalesced into the shape of Evelyn Vale’s triumphant, smiling face.
I woke up with a violent, shuddering gasp, my own scream caught in my throat.
My body was drenched in a cold sweat, the fine silk of my pajamas clinging to my skin. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild, panicked drum beating out a rhythm of pure terror. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the pillow beneath my head.
I sat bolt upright in bed, my breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. The dream clung to me like a shroud, its phantom sensations more real than the luxurious reality of my penthouse. I could still feel the weight of the child in my arms, still hear the echo of that fading heartbeat.
The grief was a physical thing, a black hole in my chest, threatening to swallow me whole. For three years, I had buried it, compartmentalized it, refused to let myself feel the full, devastating weight of what they had taken from me. But the dream had ripped open the grave, forcing me to look at the ghost I had tried so hard to ignore.
