Page 17 of The Vows He Buried

The Starlight Foundation Gala was the beating heart of New York’s philanthropic society, an annual spectacle where the city’s elite gathered to out-dress, out-bid, and out-maneuver one another under the guise of charity.

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was bathed in a soft, silvery light, the tables adorned with towering arrangements of white orchids and glittering crystal.

It was another gilded cage, another stage for a performance.

But tonight, I was not a performer. I was a sponsor.

I moved through the glittering crowd, a ghost of a different sort.

Not the pale, submissive ghost of Savannah Vale, but the quiet, observant ghost of Savannah Blake, co-CEO of BlakeCore.

My name, my real name, was on the patrons’ banner in the entryway.

My company had written a seven-figure check to the foundation, a strategic move orchestrated by Jasper and me to solidify our new leadership and public image.

It was a declaration that BlakeCore was stable, powerful, and under our firm control.

I wore a gown of my own design, a column of midnight-blue silk that was deceptively simple. It was elegant and severe, with a sharp, asymmetrical neckline. It wasn't designed to attract attention, but to command respect. It was the uniform of a woman who had come for business, not for show.

My confrontation with Maddox in the penthouse felt like a lifetime ago.

The finality of my words— I used to. That’s what makes this so easy now —had been a cleansing fire, burning away the last, lingering tendrils of our shared history.

I felt clean, as he’d said, but also keenly aware that every move I made was now on a public chessboard.

I saw Evelyn Vale across the room, holding court like a malevolent snow queen in a gown of silver sequins.

She saw me, and her polite smile tightened at the edges, her eyes promising a cold war.

I met her gaze for a brief moment, offering a small, serene nod of acknowledgement before turning away, a dismissal that I knew would infuriate her more than any overt confrontation.

The main event of the evening was the live auction, a chance for the city’s billionaires to peacock their wealth.

I watched with a detached, cynical amusement as they bid absurd sums for week-long stays on private islands, vintage sports cars, and gaudy diamond necklaces.

It was a vulgar display of ego, thinly veiled as philanthropy.

The auctioneer, a charismatic man with a slick smile and a rapid-fire delivery, was whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the ballroom, “we come to a very special, one-of-a-kind item. A surprise addition to our program tonight, an opportunity that simply cannot be bought anywhere else!”

A murmur of anticipation went through the crowd.

“We’ve auctioned off trips, jewels, and cars,” the auctioneer continued, his smile widening.

“But how about an evening with a true New York legend in the making? A woman whose strength, resilience, and style have made her the most talked-about name in the city. Ladies and gentlemen, we are offering a private dinner for two with the brilliant new co-CEO of BlakeCore, the future of fashion, the phoenix herself… Ms. Savannah Blake!”

A spotlight hit me.

For a split second, the world went silent. The air was sucked from my lungs. I was frozen in the brilliant, invasive beam of light, my face exposed, my privacy stripped bare. A wave of hot, suffocating fury washed over me.

They had turned me into a commodity. A prize to be won.

My eyes darted to Evelyn. She was watching me, a small, triumphant smirk on her face.

This was her doing. A petty, vicious power play.

Unable to control me directly, she had conspired with the gala organizers to put me on the auction block, to reduce me to an object to be bid upon by powerful men, a public reminder that in her world, everyone and everything had a price.

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of excited whispers and applause. I was trapped, pinned like a butterfly to a board. If I protested, I would look uncharitable, a poor sport. If I went along with it, I would be submitting to their game, allowing myself to be sold to the highest bidder.

“Let’s start the bidding at ten thousand dollars for an unforgettable evening with the incredible Ms. Blake!” the auctioneer shouted. “Do I hear ten thousand?”

Hands shot up around the room. It was a game to them, a chance to be associated with the drama, with my name.

“Twenty thousand!” someone yelled.

“Thirty!”

The numbers climbed with dizzying speed. I stood still, my face a mask of cold, serene neutrality, but inside, a storm was raging. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.

Then, a new voice cut through the noise, calm and authoritative. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

Every head turned. Maddox stood near the back of the room.

He hadn't raised a paddle. He had simply spoken the number, his voice a clear, commanding statement.

His face was a grim, determined mask. This was not a bid; it was an attempt at a knockout blow, a public declaration meant to end the auction immediately.

It was a desperate, possessive act. She is mine. I will buy her back.

The room fell silent, the other bidders immediately retreating. No one would bid against Maddox Vale for his own… wife.

The auctioneer’s smile was ecstatic. “One hundred thousand dollars from Mr. Maddox Vale! A powerful, generous bid! Do I hear one hundred and ten? Going once…”

Another voice, cool and utterly unbothered, sliced through the silence.

“Two hundred thousand.”

The voice came from a table near the front. Lucian Thorne sat there, looking almost bored. He hadn’t raised his hand. He had simply met the auctioneer’s gaze and spoken the words, his voice a low, smooth challenge. He didn't look at Maddox. He didn't look at the stage. He looked directly at me.

A collective gasp went through the ballroom. The air crackled with a tension so thick it was almost visible. This was no longer a charity auction. This was a duel.

Maddox’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. He had been publicly challenged by the one man in the room whose power rivaled, and perhaps surpassed, his own.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Maddox snarled, his voice tight with rage.

Lucian didn’t even wait for the auctioneer. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. “Five hundred thousand.”

The number was obscene. A wave of shock and awe rippled through the crowd.

People were standing up, craning their necks to see the two titans at war.

Lucian’s bid was not just a number; it was a statement of contempt.

It was a dismissal of Maddox’s wealth, an implication that whatever Maddox could bid, Lucian could double without a second thought.

He was playing a different game, a game of psychological warfare, and Maddox had walked right into his trap.

Maddox was pale, his knuckles white where he gripped the back of a chair. He was being humiliated, his desperate attempt to reclaim me turned into a public spectacle of his own inadequacy in the face of a greater power.

“One million dollars,” Maddox bit out, the words strained, desperate.

Lucian leaned back in his chair, a faint, predatory smile playing on his lips. He looked at me, a silent question in his storm-gray eyes. Shall we continue?

The auctioneer was practically vibrating with excitement. “One million dollars! We have one million dollars! An incredible, historic bid from Mr. Vale! Going once… going twice…”

He raised his gavel.

“Stop.”

The word was not loud, but it cut through the room with the sharp, clear authority of a breaking glass.

I spoke it.

I stood up from my table, the midnight-blue silk of my gown whispering around me. Every eye in the room, including Maddox’s and Lucian’s, swiveled to me. The spotlight found me again, but this time, I was not its victim. I was its commander.

I walked calmly, deliberately, towards the stage. I didn't ask for a microphone. I didn't need one. I stood at the edge of the stage and addressed the silent, waiting room.

“I want to thank you all for your… enthusiastic interest,” I began, my voice even and cool. “And I want to thank Mr. Vale and Mr. Thorne for their extraordinary generosity towards the Starlight Foundation.”

I paused, letting my gaze drift from Maddox’s furious, humiliated face to Lucian’s unreadable, watchful one.

“I am, and always will be, a passionate supporter of this foundation and the incredible work it does,” I continued. “However, I was not aware that I was to be included on the list of auction items tonight.”

I let that sink in, a subtle indictment of the organizers, and of Evelyn.

“And while I am deeply flattered,” I said, my voice dropping slightly, laced with an unmistakable edge of steel, “I must respectfully withdraw.”

A shocked murmur went through the crowd.

I held up a hand, and they fell silent again.

“My father taught me many things,” I said, my voice ringing with a newfound power.

“He taught me the value of hard work, the importance of integrity, and the price of a company’s stock.

But the one thing he never taught me was my own price.

Because he knew it was something that could not be bought. ”

I looked out at the sea of wealthy, powerful faces.

“My time is not for sale. My company is not for sale.” My gaze finally landed on Maddox, a final, definitive blow. “And I am not for sale.”

I turned to the stunned auctioneer. “I will, however, be personally matching the final bid of one million dollars as a donation to the foundation.”

It was the ultimate power move. I had refused to be sold, asserted my own value, and demonstrated a level of wealth and autonomy that eclipsed their entire pathetic spectacle.

Without another word, I turned my back on the stage, on the two men who had tried to buy me, on the entire shocked and silent assembly. I walked, my head held high, through the parted sea of guests and straight out of the ballroom doors, leaving behind the wreckage of their game.

I didn’t belong to anyone tonight. I didn’t belong to anyone ever again. I belonged to myself. And I was priceless.