Page 8 of The Vows He Buried
Then, I gave him my final lines in this twisted play. My voice was soft, devoid of sarcasm, devoid of heat. It was the flat, calm tone of a final verdict being read.
“Happy anniversary, Maddox.”
With that, I turned my back on him. I didn't limp, though my ankle screamed in protest. I walked, my head held high, my steps measured and deliberate. I moved through the sea of stunned faces, a ship cutting through a frozen ocean. No one approached me. No one dared. I was radiating an aura of such cold, untouchable finality that it created its own path.
I didn't head for the grand staircase. I headed for the archway that led to the service corridors, the hidden arteries of the mansion. I could feel a thousand eyes on my back, but I did not look back. Looking back was for people who had something to lose. I had already lost it all.
The moment I passed through the archway, the noise of the party was cut off as if by a closing door. The air grew cooler. The opulent carpets gave way to polished linoleum. This was the backstage of the Vale empire, the world of the staff, the world Deedee inhabited. It was a world of efficiency and silence. My world now.
My pace quickened. The adrenaline that had sustained me was beginning to fade, and the pain in my ankle was becoming a sharp, insistent reality. I leaned against the cool wall for a moment, my composure threatening to crack.
Just as a wave of dizziness washed over me, a side door opened ahead. Jasper.
He didn't say a word. He saw my face, saw the way I was leaning against the wall, and closed the distance in three long strides. He wrapped a strong arm around my waist, taking my weight without question.
“I’ve got you, Vannah,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of relief and concern. “The car is just outside this exit. Dad’s waiting.”
He guided me through the final stretch of the corridor, his presence a solid, comforting anchor in my swirling world. We stepped out of a heavy steel door and into the cool, damp night air. A black town car was idling silently by the curb, its engine a soft purr.
Jasper opened the back door. Inside, I could see the silhouette of my father, Richard Blake. He didn't speak, but I felt his presence like a shield. This was safety. This was sanctuary.
I slid into the plush leather seat, a wave of exhaustion washing over me so profound it was all I could do to remain upright. Jasper got in beside me, closing the door with a quiet, definitive click. The sound sealed off the world of the Vales.
The car began to move, pulling away from the curb and gliding down the long, tree-lined driveway. I didn't turn my head, but my eyes found the rearview mirror.
In it, the Vale mansion was a blaze of golden light, a magnificent, glittering jewel box in the darkness. It looked beautiful, perfect. A fairytale castle. But I knew the truth. It was a tomb. A beautifully decorated, obscenely expensive tomb.
As we drove, the mansion grew smaller and smaller in the mirror, its lights shrinking until they were just distant, blurry stars. Then, we turned a corner, and it was gone.
I leaned my head back against the cool leather, closing my eyes. The image of the shrinking mansion was burned onto the inside of my eyelids. I had walked into that house three years ago as Savannah Blake, a girl in love. I had lived there as Mrs. Maddox Vale, a ghost. And I had just walked out as something else entirely.
Jasper’s hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers lacing through mine, a tight, reassuring grip. My father remained silent in the front seat, a quiet, unmovable mountain of support. They didn't need to ask. They knew.
A single, cold tear escaped my closed eyelid and traced a path down my temple. It wasn't a tear of sadness. It was a tear of catharsis. A final cleansing. The last remnant of the woman I used to be.
The perfect wife was dead. The woman who would bury them all... had just been born.
Chapter 7: The Vault
The ride from Manhattan to the Blake family home in Greenwich was conducted in a profound, unbroken silence. The city lights bled into the darkness of the highway, each mile putting more distance between me and the gilded cage I had just fled. The pain in my ankle was a dull, persistent throb, a physical anchor to the reality of the night. It kept me grounded, kept the swirling vortex of emotions from pulling me under. I wasn't just escaping a party; I was escaping a life.
My father sat in the front passenger seat, a silent, unmovable mountain. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer platitudes. His presence was enough. It was a quiet, solid wall of support I could lean against without having to say a word. Jasper sat beside me in the back, his hand still holding mine, his grip a steady, reassuring pressure in the dark. They knew this wasn't a tantrum. This was a jailbreak.
When the car finally turned onto the familiar, tree-lined lane of our private road, a breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped my lips. The Vale mansion was a monument to cold, new money, all sharp angles and intimidating glass. The Blake house was different. It was a sprawling, century-old stone manor, covered in ivy, nestled amongst ancient oaks. It wasn't designed to impress; it was designed to be lived in. It was home.
As the car crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway, Jasper was out before the driver could open the door. He helped me out, his arm a steady support as I put weight on my injured foot. The night air was cool and clean, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine, a stark contrast to the city’s exhaust and the suffocating gardenia perfume of the Vale prison.
“Let’s get you inside,” Jasper said softly.
The heavy oak door swung open into a grand but welcoming foyer. Unlike the Vale mansion’s sterile, museum-like entrance hall, this space was warm and alive. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a flickering golden glow on the worn Persian rugs and the collection of family photos that lined the walls. Photos of me and Jasper as children, covered in mud; photos from my college graduation; photos of my mother, her warm, smiling face a painful, beautiful memory. This house held our history. The Vale mansion had tried to erase it.
“I’ll get some ice for your ankle,” my father said, his voice gruff with emotion as he disappeared towards the kitchen.
“I can walk,” I insisted, though my ankle protested with a sharp spike of pain.
“You don’t have to,” Jasper said simply. He scooped me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing, ignoring my token protest. He carried me up the sweeping main staircase, his steps sure and steady. He didn’t take me to a guest room. He took me to my room. The room I had grown up in, the room I hadn’t slept in for three years.
He pushed the door open and set me down gently on the edge of my four-poster bed. “I’ll be right back with the first-aid kit,” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze before leaving me alone.
