Page 18 of The Vows He Buried

Sleep, when it finally came in the deep, silent hours of the morning, was not a refuge. It was a trapdoor into a past I could not escape.

I was floating in a warm, quiet space, a place of profound peace.

There was no anger here, no grief, no need for armor.

There was only a gentle, rhythmic sound, a soft, steady beat that resonated through my entire being.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. It was the sound of life.

A small, warm weight settled against my chest. I looked down, but the image was hazy, like looking through frosted glass.

I could see the shape of a tiny body, curled in perfect contentment.

A small hand, with impossibly perfect, miniature fingers, reached up, its touch a phantom caress against my cheek.

Mama.

The word wasn't spoken aloud. It was a thought, a feeling, imprinted directly onto my soul. A wave of love so fierce, so primal and all-encompassing, washed over me, threatening to drown me in its intensity. This was it. This was the one pure, true thing in my life. My child.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The sound was my anchor, my universe. I held the small, warm body closer, burying my face in the imagined scent of baby powder and pure innocence. I was whole. I was complete.

Then, the warmth began to recede. A chill crept into the peaceful space, a cold draft smelling of gardenias and deceit. The steady, rhythmic beating faltered, becoming frantic, then weak.

Thump… thump… th…

The image of my child began to dissolve, fading into a cold, gray mist. I clutched at the dissipating form, a scream tearing from my throat, but no sound came out.

The small hand slipped from my cheek. The mist swirled, and for a fleeting, horrifying moment, it coalesced into the shape of Evelyn Vale’s triumphant, smiling face.

I woke up with a violent, shuddering gasp, my own scream caught in my throat.

My body was drenched in a cold sweat, the fine silk of my pajamas clinging to my skin. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a wild, panicked drum beating out a rhythm of pure terror. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the pillow beneath my head.

I sat bolt upright in bed, my breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. The dream clung to me like a shroud, its phantom sensations more real than the luxurious reality of my penthouse. I could still feel the weight of the child in my arms, still hear the echo of that fading heartbeat.

The grief was a physical thing, a black hole in my chest, threatening to swallow me whole.

For three years, I had buried it, compartmentalized it, refused to let myself feel the full, devastating weight of what they had taken from me.

But the dream had ripped open the grave, forcing me to look at the ghost I had tried so hard to ignore.

I swung my legs out of bed, pacing the floor of my dark bedroom like a caged animal. The glittering lights of the city, usually a comfort, seemed to mock me with their cold indifference. I was a queen in a glass tower, but inside, I was a mother grieving a child I had never been allowed to hold.

The rage came next, a white-hot wave that burned away the tears.

It was a rage directed not just at Evelyn and Sienna and Maddox, but at myself.

At the woman who had been so blind, so weak, so desperate for a man’s love that she had allowed them to do this to her.

The woman who had taken the pills without question.

The woman who had accepted the diagnosis of a “spontaneous abortion” without a fight. The woman who had let them silence her.

I would not be that woman anymore.

I stormed out of the bedroom and into the main living area, my mind racing.

I needed to do something. I couldn't just sit with this pain.

I needed to channel it, to forge it into a weapon.

My legal battle was one front, the relaunch of Lynelle another.

But this was different. This was personal. This was about rewiring my own soul.

My eyes landed on a simple, leather-bound journal and a fountain pen lying on my desk. They were props, part of the aesthetic of my new life. I had never written in it. Until now.

I snatched up the pen and the journal, the cool leather a grounding presence in my trembling hands. I sat at the table, the same table where I had laid out the evidence of their crimes, and I opened to a clean, blank page.

The pen felt heavy, a scepter of my own making. At the top of the page, I wrote, the ink a stark, black slash against the cream paper:

A List of What I Will No Longer Do

It was a declaration. A manifesto. A new set of vows, written not for a man, but for myself. The words began to pour out of me, each one a nail in the coffin of the woman I used to be.

I will no longer stay silent when I am being insulted or diminished. I thought of Evelyn’s thousand tiny cuts, her dismissive remarks about my clothes, my background, my very being. I thought of her calling my life’s passion a “little hobby.” Never again. My voice would be a sword.

I will no longer apologize for my ambition. I saw the papers I had signed, handing over my company, my dream, to appease their fragile egos. I had apologized for wanting something of my own. That apology was dead. My ambition was not a flaw; it was my engine.

I will no longer accept a love that requires me to shrink.

Maddox’s face swam before my eyes. His coldness, his neglect, his silent demand that I make myself smaller, less vibrant, less me , so as not to outshine him or threaten his fragile masculinity.

A true partner would want me to shine. Maddox had wanted me to be a shadow.

I will no longer trust the word of those who have proven themselves to be snakes.

Sienna’s treacherous, smiling face. Her feigned sympathy, her stolen moments with my husband.

My friendship with her had been a lie, and my blindness had been my own fault.

My trust was now a fortress, its gates sealed.

I will no longer ignore my own intuition.

I had known, deep down, that something was wrong.

The constant fatigue, the strange taste of the juice, the way Maddox and Sienna would fall silent when I entered a room.

I had dismissed it all as paranoia, as me being overly sensitive.

My intuition had been screaming at me, and I had put a gag in its mouth.

From now on, it would be my most trusted advisor.

The list went on and on, each line a repudiation of my past self, each word a brick in the foundation of my new one. I wrote until my hand cramped, until the page was filled with the dark ink of my resolve.

I reached the bottom of the page. There was only room for one more vow. The most important one. The one that encompassed all the others. My hand was steady now, the pen moving with a slow, deliberate grace.

I will never let another man make me disappear.

I put the pen down. I read the list back to myself, my voice a low, steady whisper in the pre-dawn silence. It was a prayer. It was a promise. It was the constitution of the new Republic of Savannah Blake.

But one final act of exorcism remained.

I walked back into my bedroom, to a large, antique trunk that sat at the foot of my bed.

It was a hope chest my mother had given me.

I hadn’t opened it since before the wedding.

Inside were mementos of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else: my graduation tassel, letters from old friends, a dried corsage from a high school dance.

And at the very bottom, tied with a white silk ribbon, was a small, elegant portfolio.

I pulled it out. Inside were the pristine, calligraphed copies of my wedding vows.

The hollow, beautiful words Evelyn’s team had written for us.

To honor and obey. To stand by him in sickness and in health.

To be the silent, supportive partner to his greatness.

I took the single sheet of paper with my vows on it. The paper was thick, expensive, the ink a beautiful, flowing script. It was a work of art. It was a masterpiece of deception.

I carried it back to the living room and found a heavy, ceramic bowl I used for decoration. I placed the paper inside. Then, I retrieved a book of matches from a drawer.

My hand did not tremble as I struck the match. The flame flared to life, a tiny, defiant star in the darkness.

I touched the flame to the edge of the paper.

It caught instantly. A line of orange fire began to eat its way across the elegant script. I watched as the words turned black, curling into ash. The word honor vanished. The word obey shriveled into nothing. The promise to be a silent partner dissolved into smoke.

I watched until the entire page was consumed, until all that remained was a pile of gray, weightless ash. The funeral was over. Mrs. Maddox Vale was gone, cremated by my own hand.

I stood there, watching the last, thin wisp of smoke curl towards the ceiling, carrying away the last ghost of my past. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale, golden light across the city. It was the dawn of a new day.

It was the dawn of me.