Page 9 of The Vows He Buried
I looked around, my heart aching with a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and grief. It was exactly as I had left it. A perfect time capsule of the woman I was before I became Mrs. MaddoxVale. The walls were a soft, calming blue. My drafting table still stood by the window, a half-finished sketch pinned to its surface. Bookshelves overflowed with art history tomes and fashion design manuals. Bolts of fabric were stacked in a corner, their colors and textures a silent testament to my forgotten passion. This room was the last bastion of the real Savannah Blake. It was my sanctuary. It was my vault.
My eyes landed on a large, abstract painting on the wall opposite the bed—one of my own, a swirl of angry reds and deep blues. It was the first thing I ever sold, to my father, who had insisted on hanging it in my room. Behind it, I knew, was my real vault.
Ignoring my ankle, I pushed myself off the bed and hobbled to the painting. My fingers found the familiar hidden latch. The painting swung away from the wall on silent hinges, revealing the cool, gray steel of a wall safe. My pulse quickened. This was it. The reclamation.
The combination was my mother’s birthday. My fingers, clumsy at first, found their rhythm. The heavy door clicked open.
The contents weren't jewels or cash, but something far more valuable. My life’s work. On the top shelf were three, thick, leather-bound sketchbooks, their spines embossed with a single word:Lynelle. My brand. My dream. Beside them was a small, encrypted hard drive.
I pulled out the first sketchbook, the worn leather cool and familiar in my hands. I sank onto the floor, heedless of the emerald velvet gown, and opened it.
The pages were filled with me. Sketches, designs, fabric swatches stapled to the margins, my own handwriting scribbling notes on draping and structure. There were designs for evening gowns,sharp business suits, whimsical summer dresses. They were bold, innovative, alive. Seeing them again was like finding a lost piece of my own soul. The passion I thought had been extinguished, buried under three years of beige conformity, was still there, a dormant ember waiting for a breath of air. This was who I was. A creator. A designer. Not an accessory.
After a moment, I reached back into the safe and retrieved the hard drive and a small, nondescript burner phone I had bought years ago and never used. This was the arsenal.
Jasper returned with a medical kit and a compression wrap. He worked in silence, expertly wrapping my ankle, his touch gentle.
“Thank you, Jas,” I whispered, my voice thick.
“Always, Vannah,” he said, finishing his work. He looked at the sketchbook in my lap. “I missed seeing you with those.”
“Me too,” I said, a real, unforced smile touching my lips for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
When he left, I plugged the hard drive into my old laptop and powered it on. It was all there. The complete business plan for Lynelle. Market research, financial projections, branding strategies, supplier lists. A fully-formed business, ready to launch. A business Maddox and Evelyn had dismissed as a “little hobby.”
Then, I turned on the burner phone. It took a moment to connect, and then it vibrated, a series of notifications popping up on the screen. They were all from one contact: Harper Lin. My best friend, my lawyer, the reluctant CEO of my stolen company. The messages were dated, spanning the last three years, simple check-ins.Thinking of you. Hope you’re okay.
The last message was from two days ago.Vannah, the fund is healthy. Very healthy. Call me on this line when you can. It’s time.
My fingers trembled as I navigated to the banking app she had installed. The account was under a holding company she had created, completely firewalled from my life as Savannah Vale. I had expected to see a few hundred thousand dollars, perhaps, from some pre-marriage investments I’d made.
The number that flashed on the screen made me gasp. It wasn’t thousands. It was millions. Eight figures. Harper, brilliant, loyal Harper, had not just been a placeholder CEO. She had been secretly funneling dividends and profits from Lynelle—which had apparently become far more successful than the Vales had ever let on—into this ghost account. I wasn't just free. I was armed. I had the resources to burn their world to the ground.
I was staring at the screen, my mind reeling with the possibilities, when a soft knock came at my bedroom door.
“Savannah?” It was my father. “You have a visitor. She says it’s urgent.”
“A visitor? At this hour?”
“Her name is Deedee.”
My blood ran cold. Deedee. Here. I hobbled to the door and opened it. My father stood there, his expression concerned. Behind him, standing nervously in the hallway, was Deedee. She was no longer in her simple black-and-white maid’s uniform. She was in a plain coat, a small suitcase at her feet. She had left. She had actually left.
“Deedee,” I breathed.
“Mrs. Vale… I mean, Miss Blake,” she said, her hands twisting the strap of her handbag. “I’m so sorry to intrude. But I saw you leave. I knew… I knew it was time. I couldn’t stay there another night.” Her eyes were full of fear, but also a fierce, quiet resolve. “I brought something for you.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a plain white envelope. It was different from the one she had given me before. This one was thicker, heavier.
“I found this in Mrs. Vale’s private study, before I left tonight,” she whispered, pressing it into my hand. “It was in her personal safe. I think… I think it’s the last piece.”
My fingers, numb with shock, tore open the envelope. It didn't contain letters or photos. It contained financial documents. Bank statements for a shell corporation I didn't recognize. And a copy of a wire transfer receipt.
The transfer was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
It was from the shell corporation—a company I now knew belonged to Evelyn—to a private account belonging to Dr. Alistair Finch.
The date on the transfer was two days after my “miscarriage.”
