Chapter 4 - SAFE HAVEN AND DARK SECRETS
At the central city hospital, thirty miles away from the private clinic where Mason and I were recovering, Daniel
Vance was putting on the performance of his life.
"It was a nightmare, absolute chaos," Daniel sighed, rubbing his temples as a flock of reporters and
photographers gathered in the hospital's private lobby. He was still wearing his dusty suit jacket, though he had
carefully smudged a bit of extra ash onto his cheek to look more like a heroic survivor.
Beside him, Vanessa sat in a wheelchair, her ankle neatly wrapped in a pristine white tensor bandage. She
looked pale and beautiful, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Mr. Vance," a reporter from a major business outlet called out, "is it true that you personally rescued your
employee from the collapsing annex?"
Daniel gave a solemn, humble nod. "When the earth began to shake, my only thought was for the lives of those
around me. Vanessa was trapped near the main lobby. I managed to reach her just as the ceiling came down. I
carried her through the smoke and dust to safety. It was what any decent man would do."
"And what of your wife, Elena Vance, and your son, Mason?" another reporter asked. "There are rumors they
were also at the hotel."
Daniel’s face fell into a perfectly rehearsed expression of deep, agonizing grief. He lowered his head, his voice
cracking slightly. "My beloved wife and son... they were in our suite on the upper floors. I tried desperately to reach
them, but the central stairwell collapsed right before my eyes. The flames, the smoke... it was impossible. The
rescue teams are still searching the rubble, but..." He trailed off, letting out a heavy, shuddering breath. "I am
praying for a miracle. But we must face the reality of this terrible tragedy."
In the back of the crowd, a tall man in a plain grey suit quietly watched the press conference. He held a phone to
his ear, listening in silence.
"He's writing you off, Elena," the voice of my father’s head of security, Marcus, murmured through the receiver
of my phone. "He’s already positioning himself as the grieving, heroic widower. It’s disgusting. He’s practically
salivating over the public sympathy."
"Let him," I said, sitting up in my hospital bed, a cold smile on my face. "The higher he builds his pedestal, the
harder his fall will be. Did he make contact with his insurance brokers yet?"
"Yes," Marcus confirmed. "Our taps show he called his primary insurer less than ten minutes after leaving the
hospital lobby. He’s already preparing to claim the full fifty-million-dollar force majeure policy on the collapsed
hotel wing."
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"He won't get a dime," I said. "Not when the insurance company receives the structural reports I've compiled.
But let him think he’s getting it. Let him file the paperwork. That constitutes insurance fraud, which carries a
federal prison sentence."
"Understood. We will monitor his filings."
I hung up the phone and looked over at Mason, who was now awake, eating a bowl of warm soup. He looked so
much better, his eyes bright and alert.
"Mommy?" he asked softly. "Are we going home soon?"
"Not to our old home, sweetie," I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We're going to a new
home. A much bigger, safer one. With Grandpa."
"And Daddy?" Mason’s voice was hesitant, a hint of fear in his young eyes. "Is Daddy coming?"
I knelt beside his bed, taking his small hands in mine. "No, baby. Daddy isn't coming with us. He has some
things he needs to take care of. But I promise you, he will never, ever be able to hurt us or ignore you again."
Mason nodded, looking relieved rather than sad. Children are incredibly intuitive. He had felt the coldness in
our house for years. He knew, perhaps even better than I had, that his father’s love was a transactional thing, and
that we had run out of currency.
Later that evening, my father returned to the room, carrying a sleek black folder.
"The trap is set," Grant said, his eyes glittering with anticipation. "Our subsidiary has officially sent the
invitation to Vance Development for the annual Whitmore Global Executive Gala in New York next Thursday.
Daniel thinks he is the guest of honor. He believes he is going to sign the thirty-million-dollar partnership deal that
will save his company."
"And Vanessa?" I asked.
"He’s bringing her as his date," my father replied, a look of sheer disgust crossing his face. "He’s already telling
his close associates that she is his new partner, both in business and in life, now that he is... 'unattached.' He’s not
even waiting for a mock funeral."
"Good," I whispered, my heart turning to ice. "Let him bring her. I want them both in the room when the lights
May you like
come up."
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