The Iron Vow

Three days later, the reality of my new life caught up with me in the master suite of Dominic’s North Harbor estate—a fortress of glass, steel, and private security guards.

I was sitting at the massive mahogany desk reviewing the quarterly tax filings for the Vale shipping lines when three heavy raps echoed against the heavy oak bedroom door.

Not a polite knock.

An institutional one.

I stood up, smoothing the cuffs of my silk blouse.

When I pulled the door open, three armed security specialists in tactical vests stood in the hallway, their expressions tight with professional urgency.

“Mrs. Vale,” the lead guard—a scarred veteran named Briggs—said flatly. “Per Mr. Vale’s standing orders, we are locking down the east wing.”

“What happened?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

“A breach at the perimeter gates,” Briggs replied, resting his hand near his holster. “An unauthorized individual bypassed the outer sensors and is currently demanding entry at the front portico.”

I walked past them down the grand spiral staircase.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the front foyer, illuminated by the harsh glare of security floodlights, a man was pounding frantically against the reinforced glass doors.

Ethan.

His expensive suit was rumpled, his hair soaked with rain, his face twisted in a desperate, pathetic mask of panic.

He looked like a man who had just realized the floor beneath him had vanished.