Page 14 of The Vows He Buried

The week following the boardroom coup was a blur of calculated warfare.

My days were spent shuttling between the BlakeCore tower, where Jasper and I worked seamlessly to stabilize the company and accelerate Project Chimera, and my penthouse war room, where I strategized with Harper and Mark Jennings.

We were building our case against the Vales, a meticulous architecture of fraud, conspiracy, and criminal malfeasance.

The evidence Lucian Thorne had provided was the nuclear core of our attack, and we were carefully constructing the missile around it.

My nights were my own. They were for Lynelle.

The brand I was resurrecting from the ashes.

My old sketchbooks were open everywhere, their pages filled with new, fiercer designs.

The soft, romantic lines of my past work were gone, replaced by sharp silhouettes, bold structures, and an unapologetic sensuality.

I was designing for the woman I had become: a warrior, a queen, a survivor.

I had assembled a small, fiercely loyal team.

Harper was my general, my strategist, handling the business end with ruthless efficiency.

I had hired a young, brilliant tech prodigy named Rowan to handle my personal and corporate cybersecurity, ensuring the Vales couldn't touch me digitally.

And for my public image—a weapon I was now learning to wield—I had Ivy, a sharp, avant-garde stylist Harper had recommended.

It was Ivy who stood before me now, a week after the boardroom showdown, holding up a garment bag with the reverence of a priestess unveiling a sacred relic.

“It’s ready,” she said, her voice hushed with excitement.

Tonight was the annual Metamorphosis Gala, the most exclusive and powerful event on the New York financial calendar.

It was a gathering of the titans who ruled the world, a place where deals worth billions were made over champagne and canapés.

It was the Vales’ territory. Evelyn was a co-chair.

Maddox was always the guest of honor. For three years, I had attended on his arm, a pale, silent accessory.

Tonight, I was attending on my own terms.

Ivy unzipped the bag.

The dress was not just red. It was the color of a dying star, a deep, incandescent crimson that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. It was a masterpiece of my own design, brought to life by a small team of couture seamstresses who worked in absolute secrecy. I had called it the “Phoenix.”

The fabric was a heavy silk crepe that moved like liquid fire.

The bodice was sculpted, almost architectural, with a sharp, plunging neckline that hinted at vulnerability but promised none.

But the true artistry was in the details.

From the hem, a delicate, intricate embroidery of silver and obsidian thread snaked upwards, like ashes rising from a fire.

The threads coalesced around the waist and shoulders, forming the subtle, abstract shape of phoenix wings, as if I were emerging, reborn, from the flames.

It was my story, told in silk and thread.

“It’s a declaration of war, Savannah,” Ivy breathed, her eyes wide.

“That’s the point,” I said.

As I was getting ready, my private line chimed. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I knew who it would be.

“Ms. Blake,” Lucian Thorne’s voice was a low, smooth purr on the other end of the line. There were no pleasantries. He never wasted time on them.

“Mr. Thorne,” I replied, my voice cool.

“I trust you received my… research materials,” he said, the word ‘research’ laced with dark amusement.

“They were… illuminating,” I said carefully.

“I imagine they were,” he said. “I also imagine you will be attending the Metamorphosis Gala tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

“I will be.”

“The Vales will be there in force. Evelyn will try to spin the narrative, paint you as an unstable, vindictive woman. Maddox will play the part of the wounded, stoic husband. They will try to isolate you.”

“Let them try,” I said.

A low chuckle came from his end of the line. “I have no doubt you are more than capable of handling them. However, a strategic alliance can often turn a battle into a slaughter. I would be honored if you would allow me to be your escort tonight.”

The offer was a masterstroke of strategy.

It wasn't a date. It was a merger of power, for one night only.

Lucian Thorne, the reclusive phantom of the financial world, publicly aligning himself with Savannah Blake, the woman who had just declared war on the Vales.

The message it would send would be catastrophic for them.

It would signal a shift in the balance of power so profound it would cause panic.

“Why?” I asked, my voice laced with suspicion. “What’s in it for you, Lucian?”

“Let’s just say,” he replied smoothly, “that I have a vested interest in seeing the current landscape… metamorphose. And besides, I want to see the look on Maddox’s face. Consider it my entertainment for the evening.”

His brutal honesty was, as always, disarming. This wasn’t about romance. It was about power, and a shared appreciation for chaos.

“I’ll be ready at eight,” I said, and hung up.

When Lucian arrived, he was a vision of dark perfection.

He wore a classic black tuxedo, but on him, it looked less like a uniform and more like the armor of a fallen angel.

He didn’t bring flowers. He brought a small, velvet box.

Inside was a pair of diamond earrings, shaped like daggers.

They were sharp, dangerous, and breathtakingly beautiful.

“I felt they suited the occasion,” he said simply.

His eyes swept over me, taking in the Phoenix dress. A flicker of genuine admiration, something primal and unguarded, sparked in his storm-gray eyes. “They thought they had buried a sparrow,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration. “They didn’t realize they were burying a dragon.”

Our arrival at the gala was not an entrance.

It was an event. The moment our car pulled up, a ripple went through the throng of paparazzi.

When Lucian Thorne stepped out, a collective gasp went through them.

When he turned and offered his hand to me, emerging from the car in my crimson armor, the flashing of cameras became a blinding, continuous strobe of light.

We walked the red carpet in a bubble of stunned silence. We didn't stop. We didn't pose. We moved with a shared, regal purpose, a dark king and his fiery queen, and the crowd parted before us as if by magic.

Inside, the grand ballroom of the museum was a glittering spectacle of power and wealth.

And at the center of it all, near the main stage, stood the Vales.

Evelyn, in a severe, ice-blue gown, was holding court.

Maddox stood beside her, his face a stoic, handsome mask.

Sienna was there, of course, clinging to his other side, a parasite in couture.

They saw us at the same time.

Evelyn’s smile froze, her face tightening into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. Sienna’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her throat in a gesture of theatrical shock.

But it was Maddox’s reaction that I watched.

The blood drained from his face. He stared at me, not as a husband looks at a wife, but as a soldier looks at a beautiful, terrifying new weapon pointed directly at his heart.

Then his gaze shifted to the man at my side, to Lucian Thorne, and his shock curdled into a dark, possessive rage so potent I could feel it across the room.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Lucian’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back, a gesture that was both a support and a statement of claim. He leaned in, his voice a whisper against my ear. “Checkmate, I believe.”

We didn’t approach them. Lucian guided me through the room, a tour of our new kingdom.

He introduced me not as Savannah Vale, but as Savannah Blake, the new co-CEO of BlakeCore.

The titans of industry, the men who had dismissed me, now looked at me with a new, calculating respect.

They saw me standing with Lucian Thorne, and they understood. I was not a woman to be trifled with.

For an hour, I played the part. I laughed, I networked, I was charming and brilliant and utterly untouchable. I could feel Maddox’s eyes on me the entire time, a burning, relentless gaze. He never moved from his spot, a dark, brooding statue in the center of the room.

The moment that truly broke him came unexpectedly.

I was in a conversation with a French financier who was an old friend of my father’s, a man with a wicked sense of humor.

He told a joke, a genuinely funny one, and I threw my head back and laughed.

It was a real laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated amusement that I hadn't realized I was still capable of making.

Across the room, I saw Maddox flinch as if he’d been shot.

His mask of stoic control finally shattered.

He saw me happy. He saw me laughing, a genuine, joyful sound, while standing next to another man.

And in that moment, he knew, with a final, soul-crushing certainty, that he had not just lost my presence.

He had lost my light. He had lost the very essence of the woman he had once sworn to protect and had instead chosen to break.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I was aware of the whispers, the stares, the shifting allegiances in the room. I was aware of Lucian at my side, a silent, powerful guardian. But mostly, I was aware of my own strength, a feeling so new and intoxicating it was like a drug.

As the gala began to wind down, Lucian guided me towards the exit. We were almost to the doors when he paused, looking back into the room.

“It’s strange,” he murmured, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His gaze was fixed on Maddox, who was still standing alone, watching us, a portrait of impotent rage and regret.

“What’s strange?” I asked.

Lucian turned his dark, knowing eyes to me. A faint, cruel smile played on his lips.

“How the man who broke you,” he said softly, “now wants to pretend he still owns the pieces.”