Page 3 of The Vows He Buried

The grief in the dusty art studio was a physical presence, a cold hand squeezing my heart.

But the rage was a fire in my veins, burning away the tears before they could fall.

I carefully placed the ultrasound photo and Deedee’s damning evidence back into the manila envelope, my movements precise and steady.

I tucked the envelope back into its hiding place beneath the floorboards, a secret cache of ammunition for a war I was about to declare.

This wasn’t just for a lost dream or a broken heart anymore.

This was for the ghost of a life that never was. This was for my child.

I rose from the floor, the champagne-colored gown feeling like a costume for a part I refused to play. It was the dress of a victim, a pale, shimmering symbol of my submission. It was Evelyn’s choice. Tonight, I would make my own.

Leaving the studio and its ghosts behind, I walked back to the master suite.

The glam squad had left everything in pristine order, the discarded tools of their trade vanished, the air still faintly scented with their expensive products.

The dress they had prepared for me lay on the chaise lounge, its tiny diamonds winking in the soft light.

It was beautiful, expensive, and utterly soulless. It was a lie.

I ignored it, walking past it to the far end of the cavernous walk-in closet, a space larger than my first apartment.

Behind racks of Vale-approved designer gowns in muted shades of beige, cream, and blush, there was a sealed garment bag, untouched for three years.

My fingers trembled slightly as I unzipped it.

The scent of cedar and memories rushed out.

Inside was the last dress I had ever designed and sewn for myself.

It was a sin in the Vale world. The fabric was a deep, defiant emerald green, the color of ancient forests and hidden jewels.

It was silk velvet, a material that drank the light and threw back shadows.

It wasn't demure. It was cut in a way that was both elegant and unapologetically sensual, with a sharp, plunging neckline and a silhouette that clung to the body before flaring out at the floor.

It was a dress for a woman who was not afraid to be seen.

A dress for the Savannah Blake I had buried.

I stripped off the champagne shroud and let it pool on the floor like a shed skin.

Stepping into the emerald velvet felt like stepping back into myself.

The fabric was cool and heavy against my skin, a comforting weight.

It was armor. I looked in the mirror, and for the first time in years, the woman staring back felt like me. The dress didn't wear me; I wore it.

There was no time for a full redo of hair and makeup.

I didn't want one. I wiped away the pale pink lipstick they had applied, replacing it with a bold, blood-red shade.

I undid the perfectly coiffed hair, running my fingers through it until it fell in looser, wilder waves around my shoulders.

The transformation was subtle but profound.

The doll was gone. A queen was taking her place.

My plan required one more step before I descended into the lion’s den.

My phone lay on the vanity. I picked it up, my hand steady.

I arranged my hand on the marble countertop, my fingers slightly curled.

Then, I slid my engagement ring—a flawless, ten-carat diamond that felt more like a handcuff than a promise—and my wedding band off my finger.

I placed them beside my hand, the stark emptiness of my ring finger the focal point of the image.

In the blurred background, the defiant emerald of my dress was unmistakable.

I snapped the photo. No text. No explanation. I sent it to one person: my brother, Jasper.

Jasper and I had a language that transcended words.

He knew about the cage I was in. He had seen the light dim in my eyes over the years.

We had a pact, forged in a hushed conversation during a rare visit home a year ago.

When you’re ready, Vannah, just give me the signal.

I’ll come for you. No questions asked. The signal was this: the empty finger.

The broken vow made visible. He would understand.

He would be waiting. The extraction was now in motion.

A soft knock came at the door. “Ma’am? It’s Deedee. Mrs. Vale, the elder, sent me to see if you require assistance.”

“Come in, Deedee,” I said, my voice even.

The small, quiet woman entered, her eyes immediately falling on my dress. A flicker of something—shock, maybe even approval—crossed her face before she masked it with her usual professional impassivity.

“You look… beautiful, Mrs. Vale,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. It was the first time she had ever offered a personal compliment.

“Thank you, Deedee,” I said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I feel more like myself tonight.”

She busied herself, pretending to adjust a fold in the velvet skirt. Her movements were a pretext for proximity, for the hushed delivery of intelligence. It was a dance we had perfected.

“The party is very well-attended,” she began, her back to the door. “All of New York is here.” She paused, her hands stilling on the fabric. “Mr. Maddox has been occupied with his guests. He has many… late-night meetings these days. Even here, in his private quarters.”

I remained silent, watching her in the mirror.

She took a small breath and continued, her voice dropping even lower. “Miss Sienna is very dedicated. She is often seen… assisting him. Long after the rest of the staff has retired for the night.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a confirmation, delivered with the quiet dignity of a loyal soldier.

It was the final nail in the coffin of my denial.

I had seen the touch, but Deedee was confirming the pattern.

The affair wasn't a secret; it was an open secret, one the entire household was complicit in keeping from me.

They weren't just his staff; they were his co-conspirators.

“Thank you, Deedee,” I said softly. The words were for more than just the information. “That will be all.”

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and slipped out of the room as silently as she had entered.

I was ready. As I reached for the doorknob, it turned from the other side. The door swung open to reveal Evelyn Vale, a magnificent dragon in a gown of silver scales. Her eyes, the same cold gray as her son’s, swept over me, and the air in the room dropped ten degrees.

Her perfectly sculpted face tightened, the smile she wore for her guests vanishing instantly. Her gaze locked onto my dress, and a flicker of pure fury ignited in their depths. This was not part of her meticulously curated plan. This was chaos. This was rebellion.

“What,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous hiss, “is that you’re wearing?”

I didn’t flinch. I held her gaze, my posture relaxed, my hands clasped loosely in front of me. The old me would have shrunk, stammered an apology, felt a wave of shame and fear. The new me felt nothing but a cold, thrilling sense of power.

“It’s a dress, Evelyn,” I replied, my tone placid.

“That is not the dress I selected for you. That is not a Vale color. It is garish. It is… desperate.” Each word was a carefully aimed dart, meant to wound and diminish.

I offered her a small, empty smile. “I decided I wanted to wear something of my own tonight.”

She took a step closer, her presence immense, her gardenia perfume a suffocating cloud.

She was searching for the fear in my eyes, the weakness she had always been ableto exploit.

She found none. She circled me like a shark, her eyes cataloging every detail—the defiant dress, the wilder hair, the blood-red lips.

It was a declaration of war, and she knew it.

Finding no purchase, she fell back on her most reliable weapon: scorn. She gave a short, dismissive laugh, a sound like shattering glass.

“Well,” she said, stopping in front of me, her final inspection complete. She tilted her head, a cruel mockery of consideration on her face. “You look… acceptable.” She paused, letting the insult land. “Not quite elegant. But tolerable.”

It was the kind of remark that had once sent me spiraling for days. Tonight, it glanced off my armor without leaving a scratch.

She turned to leave, expecting me to follow like a chastised child. I remained where I was. She glanced back over her shoulder, an order in her eyes. “The guests are waiting for the happy couple. Your husband is downstairs.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she swept out of the room, leaving the door open in her wake. The sounds of the party, the music and the laughter, rushed in to fill the silence.

I walked to the threshold, stopping just out of sight of the grand staircase.

I could hear the master of ceremonies beginning his introductions.

My heart was a steady, powerful drum against my ribs.

This wasn't fear. It was anticipation. I was stepping onto the stage for my final act as Mrs. Vale, but this time, I was the one writing the script.

They thought they knew me. They thought they had created me, controlled me, broken me. They were about to find out how wrong they were. I took one last, deep breath, the air tasting of freedom.

Let them see the wife they buried.