Page 29 of The Vows He Buried
Back in the dusty storage room, the weight of the memory was suffocating. Harper stared at me, her face a mask of horrified understanding.
“That monster,” she whispered, her voice shaking with fury. “She stole it from you. On your wedding day.”
“She didn’t just steal a ring, Harper,” I said, looking down at the deep, twilight blue of the sapphire on my finger. It felt like it belonged there. It felt like coming home. “She stole my identity. My history. She tried to replace it with something cold and empty that she could control.”
I stood up, a new, fierce resolve hardening within me. I held up my hand, admiring the way the light caught the deep blue facets of the stone.
“She buried it,” I said, my voice low and steady. “She buried my story, my grandmother’s story. She thought if she hid it away, it would cease to exist.”
I looked at Harper, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across my face. “I’m reclaiming everything they buried.”
Harper’s eyes lit up with a sudden, brilliant understanding. “Vannah… your brand.”
“Exactly,” I said. The idea hit me with the force of a lightning strike, a moment of perfect, absolute clarity. It was more than just a name. It was a mission statement. It was my story. “It’s not Lynelle anymore. Lynelle was the girl I was. This brand is for the woman I am now.”
I held out my hand, the sapphire ring a beacon of reclaimed power.
“We’re calling itHeirloom Reclaimed.”
The name settled in the space between us, perfect and powerful. It was everything. It was about reclaiming my past, my designs, my power, my very identity. It was a story that would resonate with any woman who had ever been made to feel small, who had ever had a piece of herself taken away.
“It’s perfect,” Harper breathed, her eyes shining. “It’s absolutely, goddamn perfect.”
The final piece of my new life had just clicked into place.
The next day, my penthouse was once again transformed, this time into a photo studio. Ivy had worked her magic, creating a set that was stark, minimalist, and powerful. A simple black backdrop. A single, dramatic light source.
I wore a simple, sleeveless black dress of my own design. My hair was pulled back, my makeup minimal. The focus was not on my face.
The photographer, a woman known for her powerful, evocative portraits, directed me. “Just rest your hand on the table, Ms. Blake. As if you’re about to sign a contract.”
I did as she asked. I placed my right hand on the polished black surface. The dramatic lighting caught the deep, mesmerizing blue of the sapphire ring. It was the only point of color in the entire shot, a defiant spark against the darkness. It was not the hand of a victim. It was the hand of a queen, a CEO, a creator. It was a hand that held power.
The camera clicked, capturing the image.
Later that night, Harper sent me the final version of the image, ready for its digital launch. It was more powerful than I could have imagined. Just my hand, the ring, the stark black background. Beneath it, in a clean, elegant font, was the new brand name:Heirloom Reclaimed.
And below that, the tagline that would serve as my declaration to the world. A final, definitive severing. A promise of the legacy I was now building for myself.
She’s no longer his. She’s her own legacy.
Chapter 20: The Confrontation
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday morning. It was not an email or a text message, but a thick, cream-colored card, delivered by a solemn courier. The Vale family crest was embossed in gold at the top, a relic from a world I had set on fire. The message inside was written in a flowing, elegant script that I recognized as Evelyn’s.
My Dearest Savannah,
There has been so much unfortunate misunderstanding between our families. I believe it is long past time we sat down, just the two of us, to speak openly and find a path towards healing. Please join me for tea in my office tomorrow at three.
Yours, Evelyn.
It was a masterpiece of manipulative prose. The feigned affection, the appeal to a non-existent bond, the framing of her crimes as a simple “misunderstanding.” It was a summons, disguised as an olive branch. A spider inviting a fly into her parlor.
“It’s a trap,” Jasper said, his voice flat, when I showed it to him over a video call. He was at the hospital, keeping vigil. “Don’t go, Vannah. She’s going to try to intimidate you, threaten you. There’s no reason for you to walk into the lion’s den.”
“That’s exactly why I have to go,” I replied, my voice calm. “She thinks she’s a lion, Jas. She thinks I’m still the lamb she can lead to slaughter. It’s time she learned that I’ve grown claws of my own.”
Harper agreed with Jasper. “From a legal standpoint, it’s inadvisable. She’ll try to get you to say something she can use against you. Let the lawyers handle her.”
