Chapter 3 - The Secret VisitorWhile Marcus sweated through an agonizingly aggressive therapy session—pushing my dead limbs through stretches that felt like molten lead being poured into my bones—Tessa stood guard by the window.
As the clock struck 4:30 PM, a sleek black town car pulled up the gravel driveway.
"She's back early," Tessa announced quietly. "And she's not alone. Dominic is with her."
Marcus froze, his hands trembling on my ankles. "They're not supposed to be back until dinner. There was a board meeting downtown—"
"The board meeting was a decoy," I said, my teeth clenched against the stabbing pain shooting up my spine from Marcus's forced stretches. "They expected me doped up on the sedatives Arya slipped into my water yesterday. Tessa, help me back into position. Marcus, pack your bag and stand by the door. If you make a single sound, I'll ruin you before dinner."
The front door clicked open. Laughter drifted up the grand staircase—Arya’s bright, musical laugh, paired with Dominic’s oily chuckles.
"Just sign the transfer documents in front of the notary tomorrow morning," Dominic’s voice echoed up the foyer. "Once the shipping routes are under our control, the old man’s legacy won't be worth a rusted anchor."
"And Vincent?" Arya asked, her tone chillingly casual. "What do we do with him once the lawyers finish the paperwork?"
"Send him to that private facility upstate," Dominic replied. "The one with the high walls and no visitors allowed. Out of sight, out of mind."
Upstairs, my fingers tightened around the armrests. The men who used to fear my name weren't wrong; they just hadn't realized how dangerous I was even when broken.
When footsteps approached the bedroom door, I gave Marcus a sharp nod.
Marcus threw the door open, pretending to pack his medical bag while wiping sweat from his forehead. Arya and Dominic stopped dead in their tracks in the hallway.
"Marcus?" Arya frowned, stepping into the room. "What are you doing here? I canceled your session for today."
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I wheeled slowly out from the shadow of the wardrobe, my charcoal suit crisp, my posture iron-clad. I looked her dead in the eye.
"My fiancée has such a terrible memory," I said softly, the silence in the room dropping to a freezing zero. "She keeps forgetting that I built this house, these walls, and the ground she’s standing on."
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