The Iron Vow

The magistrate’s office smelled of floor wax and stale coffee.

An elderly man in a rumpled suit muttered words neither of us listened to, stamping two identical forms with a heavy brass seal.

When we stepped back outside into the grey, pre-dawn chill, the river fog was rolling in over the asphalt.

A sleek black town car was idling at the curb, its headlights cutting amber beams through the mist.

Marco—Dominic’s chief of security—held the rear door open.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Vale,” Marco said, his face as impassive as granite.

I slid into the leather-lined interior, the heavy platinum ring cold against my finger.

For the first time in thirty-one years, I didn't have a plan.

I didn't have a color-coordinated seating chart.

I didn't have a mother lecturing me about family harmony or a sister waiting to take whatever I left behind.

I had a man who terrified half the city, a stack of corporate ledgers waiting at a downtown estate, and an ex-fiancé who was about to find out what happened when you crossed someone who understood every hidden asset he owned.

“First stop?” Marco asked from the front seat, looking back at Dominic through the rearview mirror.

“The downtown loft,” Dominic said, his gaze fixed on mine. “Let Mrs. Vale pack whatever she wants from her old apartment. Then we pay a visit to Ethan’s office.”