Page 20 of His Vow

I bit my lip. My cheeks hurt.

"The worst kind."

SIX

NOLAN

"The Vanguard respects what you've built, gentlemen. We're here to preserve it."

Declan's voice filled the conference room. His jacket was buttoned. His hands were folded on the table. The seven men across from us leaned toward him, as people did when Declan spoke.

Julian sat to his right, laptop open, his pen tapping his notebook in an irregular rhythm. His eyes moved between the screen and the faces across the table.

I glanced at the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) — mid 50s, ruddy-faced — his phone turned face down. He kept checking it, thumb drifting toward it, then pulling back, like a man touching a bruise to check if it still hurts.

The chairman, Prescott, adjusted his left cufflink. Then his right. Then his left again. His silver hair was perfect. His Cartier caught the light. A bead of sweat sat at his temple.

"We appreciate the Vanguard's interest, Mr. Hale," Prescott said. He straightened his tie. "But the terms you've proposed would effectively remove our entire leadership team, and frankly, we find that — "

"Mr. Prescott." I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. Every head turned. "Your consulting expenses for the last fiscal year totaled $14,200,000. 61% went to Hargreave & Associates." I let the name sit. "Owned by your brother-in-law."

Prescott's hand froze on his cufflink.

"The Gramercy renovation," I continued. "Billed at $23,000,000. The contractor's actual invoice was 14.8. The difference was routed through a subsidiary with no employees, no office, and a P.O. box in Delaware." I opened the folder in front of me and set the page on the table. "The subsidiary is controlled by two members of this board."

I didn't name them. The thin man in the gray suit and glasses at the far end pushed his chair back 3 in. from the table. The one beside him developed a sudden interest in his pen.

"The Vanguard is offering a restructuring package that preserves the brand, retains key operational staff, and injects the capital your properties need." I closed the folder. "The alternative is that these documents reach the Wall Street Journal by Friday."

Prescott glanced at the folder, then Declan, then me. His jaw worked. His cufflinks went still.

"We'll need an hour to confer with our counsel," he said.

Declan smiled. "Take your time."

They took eleven minutes.

The elevator doors closed behind us. Julian exhaled. "Eleven minutes. That's a record."

Declan was already on his phone, scrolling through texts. A grin pulled at his mouth — something Thea sent. He typed back with one thumb. "I've got to pick up Lena. The nanny has an appointment, and Thea's at the nonprofit." He pocketed the phone and loosened his tie. "Daddy duty."

Julian shrugged his jacket on. "I have a thing."

Declan raised an eyebrow. "When will you ever be straightforward, Cross?"

Julian winked, raised two fingers in a salute, and split toward the east exit. Declan clapped my shoulder once, checked his phone again, and headed for the parking garage.

I stood on the sidewalk. The cold air pressed against my face. Two men walking away from me — one toward a family, one toward pleasure. I turned toward my car. The walk was four blocks. The street was busy and unremarkable.

I saw her at the end of the second block.

Across the street, a woman with short natural hair in a muted olive coat buttoned to her chin cradled a brown paper grocery bag — green leafy tops poking out. She walked head down, steps measured, stride steady from a routine she'd built alone, day by day.

My feet stopped. The city kept moving around me with taxis, pedestrians, and a delivery truck backing into an alley. I stood on the sidewalk with my hands at my sides and my chest caving in.

Adira.

She looked healthy. That was the first thing. Healthy in a way I hadn't seen in years — her face fuller, her posture straighter, her skin clear. She'd cut her hair shorter than I remembered. It suited her. She looked like a woman who had built a small, deliberate, ordinary life of grocery bags, leafy greens, and Tuesday afternoon sidewalks.