Page 41 of The Vows He Buried
I paused, the memory as vivid as if it were yesterday. “It was a terrible sketch,” I said, and a ripple of soft laughter went through the room. “The proportions were all wrong, the design hopelessly ambitious. But in my mind, it was a masterpiece. It was a dress for a queen, for a warrior, for a woman who was not afraid of her own power. That sketch was the first, truest expression of who I was. It was my voice, on paper.”
I let my gaze drift over the audience. “For many years, I held onto that voice. I nurtured it. I built a small world around it, a world of fabric and thread and passion. And then… as often happens in life… I was convinced to put that voice away. I was told it was too loud, too ambitious, not in keeping with the much more important role of being a silent partner in someone else’s story. And so, I packed away my voice, along with my sketches, and I learned to be quiet.”
The silence in the auditorium was absolute, profound. Every woman in that room understood the silence I was talking about.
“To be silent,” I said, my voice dropping, becoming more intimate, “is to slowly disappear. You begin to forget the sound of your own thoughts. You start to see yourself only through the eyes of others. You become a reflection, a beautiful, polished accessory. You learn to walk on eggshells, to shrink yourself to fit into the spaces allotted to you. And the most dangerous part is, you begin to believe that this is all you are. You forget the girl who dreamed of emerald velvet.”
I looked down at the podium for a moment, gathering my strength. From the front row, I saw Lucian’s eyes on me, his gaze a tangible force of support.
“There comes a point, however, when the silence becomes more painful than the truth. There comes a point when you realize that the cage, no matter how gilded, is still a cage. And you have a choice. You can remain a beautiful, broken bird. Or you can remember that you have wings.”
“I chose to remember my wings,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. “I chose to find my voice again. And I discovered that the voice that returned was not the same one I had packed away. It was stronger. It was deeper. It had been forged in the fire of my own silence. And it had something to say.”
“I did not rise from the ashes of my old life to be admired,” I declared, my voice resonating with the conviction of my own hard-won truth. “I did not fight to reclaim my name so that it could be whispered in gossip columns. I rose so that no other woman would have to kneel again. I rose so that every woman who has ever been silenced can see that her voice is not a liability; it is her greatest asset.”
“That is the philosophy behind Heirloom Reclaimed,” I explained. “It is not just a brand. It is a testament. It is the idea that our stories, our histories, our legacies—the heirlooms of our souls—are the most valuable things we will ever own. They cannot be taken from us unless we willingly give them away. And we can, at any moment, decide to reclaim them.”
I looked out at the crowd, at the tears shining in the eyes of the women before me, and I felt a connection so profound it was almost overwhelming. We were a sisterhood of survivors, a legion of queens who had taken back their thrones.
“So, no,” I concluded, my voice softening but losing none of its power. “I did not rebuild myself. Because the original structure was flawed, built on the belief that I needed someone else to complete me. Instead, I demolished the old foundation. And from the rubble, I have begun to build something new. Something stronger. Something that is entirely, unapologetically, my own.”
I stepped back from the podium. The applause was a physical wave, a roar of sound and emotion that washed over me, not as validation, but as recognition. It was a sound of a thousand women finding their own voices in mine.
Later, in the quiet of the green room, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, peaceful sense of catharsis. Lucian was there, a glass of water in his hand. He didn’t offer congratulations or praise. He simply looked at me, his eyes filled with an emotion that went far beyond admiration. It was the look of a man who was witnessing something truly beautiful, something he had known was there all along.
“You have found your voice, Savannah,” he said softly.
“I think it was there all along,” I replied, a small smile on my lips. “I just had to learn to listen to it.”
My fingers went to the silver chain around my neck, to the sapphire ring that rested against my heart. It had been my secret talisman, a private reminder of my heritage, of the strength I came from. But I didn't need a secret reminder anymore. My strength was no longer a secret.
Slowly, deliberately, I unfastened the clasp and lifted the chain from around my neck. I held the ring in the palm of my hand, the deep blue stone cool and heavy. It was my grandmother’s legacy. It was my father’s belief. It was my own reclaimed history.
It was not a promise to a man. It was a promise to myself.
With a sense of profound, quiet ceremony, I slipped the sapphire ring onto the fourth finger of my left hand. The traditional place for a vow. But this was a new kind of vow. It was not a vow of partnership, but of selfhood.
Lucian watched me, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft with understanding. He knew what this meant. He knew this was not an act of rejection, but one of ultimate acceptance.
I held up my hand, the sapphire a beacon of deep, twilight blue against my skin. It felt right. It felt whole.
“This time,” I whispered, the words a sacred, final promise to the woman I had become. “I marry only myself.”
Chapter 28: The Letter He Never Sent
The first year in Florence passed like a dream painted in watercolor. Life settled into a rhythm of creativity and quiet joy, a gentle melody that soothed the scarred corners of my soul. The Heirloom Reclaimed atelier flourished, becoming a beacon of artistry and empowerment. My name, once a whisper in gossip columns, was now spoken with respect in the hallowed halls of haute couture. I had found my voice, my purpose, and a profound, quiet peace in the life I was building, stitch by stitch.
The past was a distant country, its borders sealed. I rarely thought of the Vales. They were characters in a story whose final chapter had been written. My present was full, my future a bright, open horizon. I had everything I had ever fought for.
It was on a crisp autumn afternoon, the second anniversary of my father’s death, that the last ghost of that distant country came knocking. A secure package arrived from Jasper. It wasn’t unusual; we were in constant contact, sharing business strategies and family news. But this one felt different. It was heavier, more personal.
Inside, amongst some of our father’s personal effects that the estate lawyers had finally released, was a thick, sealed manila envelope. My name was written on the front in my father’s familiar, strong handwriting. My heart gave a small, painful lurch. Seeing his script was like hearing his voice after a long silence.
My fingers trembled as I opened it. Inside was not a letter from him, but another, smaller envelope, made of heavy, graystationery. The handwriting on this one was elegant, masculine, and achingly familiar.
Maddox.
Tucked alongside it was a short, folded note from my father. I unfolded it, my breath catching in my throat.
