Page 28 of The Vows He Buried
The act of burning my wedding vows had been a private exorcism, a severing of the final thread connecting me to the ghost of Mrs. Maddox Vale. The days that followed were filled with a strange, clean silence in my soul. The rage was still there, a cold, pilot light humming deep within me, but it was no longer a wild, consuming fire. It was fuel. It was focus.
My time was a carefully balanced portfolio of war and creation. The legal battle against the Vales was escalating, a complex chess game of motions and discovery requests. The relaunch of Lynelle, however, was where I felt most alive. My penthouse had been fully converted into a bustling atelier, a stark, modern space now softened by bolts of vibrant silk, sketches pinned to every available surface, and the low hum of a sewing machine operated by a freelance pattern-maker.
But to build the future, I first had to finish excavating the past.
That Saturday, I drove out to the Blake estate in Greenwich. Harper met me there. Our mission was to clear out the attic and a small, forgotten storage room off the main library—spaces filled with the dusty detritus of my family’s history, and specifically, with items belonging to my grandmother, Lynelle, after whom I had named my first company. My mother had carefully packed away her things after she passed, and I hadn’t had the heart to go through them since. Now, it felt less like a painful chore and more like a necessary pilgrimage. I was searching for inspiration, for a connection to the woman whose legacy of quiet strength and creativity I was trying to reclaim.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Harper asked gently as we stood before the storage room door. She held two large cups of coffee, a peace offering against the dust and memories.
“I’m not just ready,” I said, taking a cup from her. “I need this. I feel like the Vales didn't just try to erase me; they tried to erase everyone who came before me. I need to remember where I come from.”
The room was cool and dark, smelling of old paper, cedar, and time. It was filled with carefully labeled boxes, a testament to my mother’s organized nature. We worked for hours, a comfortable silence between us, punctuated by laughter as we uncovered old family photos and my terrible childhood report cards. It was a gentle, healing process, a stark contrast to the brutal archaeology I had been conducting on my life with the Vales.
It was in a large, antique steamer trunk, tucked away in a corner, that we found it. The trunk was filled with my grandmother’s things: her favorite cashmere sweaters, still faintly smelling of her rose perfume; her collection of well-worn poetry books; a box of her fountain pens. And at the very bottom, nestled in a velvet-lined jewelry box, was a ring.
It wasn't a large, ostentatious piece like the ten-carat diamond handcuff Maddox had given me. This was something else entirely. It was a classic, elegant heirloom. A large, rectangular-cut sapphire, the color of a twilight sky, was set in a delicate, handcrafted platinum band, flanked by two small, baguette-cut diamonds. It was a ring that spoke of enduring love and quiet, confident taste. It was my grandmother’s engagement ring, the one my grandfather had given her, the one she had promised to me.
I lifted it from its velvet bed, my fingers trembling slightly. The metal was cool against my skin. I slid it onto the ring finger of my right hand. It fit perfectly.
“Oh, Vannah,” Harper breathed, her eyes wide. “That’s… it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen it before.”
“You have,” I said, my voice a low, tight whisper. “You saw it for about five minutes on my wedding day.”
The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow, so vivid it was as if the past had folded in on the present.
Flashback: The bridal suite at the Plaza Hotel, three years ago.
I was a nervous, excited wreck, a girl on the precipice of what she believed would be her forever. My wedding dress, a cloud of white lace chosen by Evelyn, was perfect. My hair and makeup were perfect. I felt like a princess in a fairytale.
My mother had passed away two years prior, so my father was the one to perform the small, private ritual before the ceremony. He came into the suite, his eyes misty, and presented me with the small, velvet box.
“Your grandmother wanted you to have this, Savannah,” he’d said, his voice thick with emotion. “She said it would bring you a lifetime of happiness, just as it brought her.”
I had slipped the sapphire ring onto my finger, and it felt like a connection to the strong women in my family, a blessing from the past. It was my ‘something old’ and ‘something blue’ all in one. It felt like a piece of home, a talisman of real, enduring love that I could carry with me into my new life.
Just then, the door had swept open, and Evelyn Vale had entered, a formidable galleon in a mother-of-the-groom gown of icy silver. Her sharp eyes scanned me from head to toe, her expression one of critical appraisal.
“You look acceptable,” she’d said, her highest form of compliment. Then, her eyes had landed on my hand, on the deep blue sparkle of the sapphire.
Her perfectly plucked eyebrows had drawn together in a faint, displeased line. “What is that?” she’d asked, her voice dripping with disdain.
“It was my grandmother’s,” I’d said proudly. “My father just gave it to me.”
Evelyn had glided over, taking my hand in her cold, dry grip. She’d examined the ring as if it were a piece of cheap costume jewelry. “It’s… quaint,” she’d said, the word a clear insult. “But it will not do.”
“Not do?” I’d asked, confused.
“Savannah, dear,” she’d said, her voice taking on a tone of patronizing patience, as if explaining a complex concept to a simple-minded child. “You are about to become a Vale. The Vales have a brand. A standard. That ring, with its… sentimentality… does not align with the image we need to project. It’s provincial. We project power, clarity, flawlessness.”
She had then produced another, smaller box from her handbag. She’d opened it to reveal a simple, elegant diamond eternity band. It was beautiful, cold, and utterly impersonal. “This is what you will wear,” she’d stated, not asked. “It complementsthe engagement ring Maddox gave you. It’s clean. It’s on-brand.”
I had stared at her, stunned into silence. My father had stepped forward, a protective anger flashing in his eyes. “Evelyn, that ring is a family heirloom. It means a great deal to Savannah.”
Evelyn had given him a smile that was all teeth. “And she can treasure its meaning in her private jewelry box. But on her hand, in the photographs that will be seen around the world, she will wear the Vale standard.”
She had then turned back to me, her will an irresistible force. With her cold, manicured fingers, she had slid the sapphire ring from my finger and slipped the cold, impersonal diamond band in its place. “There,” she’d said with a satisfied nod. “Perfect.”
She had pocketed my grandmother’s ring, and I, the young, naive bride, too intimidated and too desperate to please my new family, had let her. I had let her take a piece of my history, a piece of my soul, and replace it with her own cold, empty version of perfection. I never saw the ring again.
