Chapter 3 - Shattered Glass
The air inside the car froze.
The hum of the engine seemed to vanish, replaced entirely by the sound of blood roaring in my ears. I stared at Richard, my breath trapped in my throat.
"You... what?"
Richard did not flinch. He didn't retract his words, nor did he look away. His eyes held mine with a raw, unapologetic gravity that pinned me where I sat.
"Three years ago," he said calmly, though the muscle jumping in his jaw told a different story. "At your twenty-first birthday celebration at the gallery. You wore that emerald dress your father bought you. You stood in front of that massive canvas of the Aegean Sea, laughing with Sloan, completely unconscious of how breathtaking you were. Arthur stood beside me. He looked at you, then he looked at me. He saw it before I even dared to admit it to myself."
My mind raced back to that night. I remembered the party, the champagne, the pride on my father’s face. I remembered Richard standing in the shadows by the archway, holding a glass of scotch, watching me with an intensity that had made me nervously adjust my dress all night. I had thought he was judging me. I had thought he saw me as a spoiled, flighty girl.
"He told me that night," Richard continued, "that if anyone was going to cherish you, protect you, and match the fire in your spirit, it was me. But he made me swear to let you grow. He made me swear not to influence your life until you were ready. I gave him my word."
Richard looked down at his hands, his knuckles whitening slightly.
"Then your father died. And I had to step into the role of the dutiful, distant guardian. I had to watch you mourn. I had to sign the checks for your schooling, approve your allowances, and sit across the table from you once a month like an old uncle." A dark, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "And then I had to watch you bring Tristan Montgomery into my boardroom and introduce him as the man you loved."
A shudder ran through me. "Richard..."
"Every time he touched you, I wanted to end him," Richard confessed, his voice dangerously low. "Every time he put his arm around your waist, every time you smiled up at him with those trusting eyes, I had to remind myself that your happiness mattered more than my possession of you. So I investigated him. I looked for every flaw, praying I would find a reason to tear him out of your life. And when I found the financial discrepancies... I thought I could save you without breaking your heart."
He shook his head, looking out the window as the gates of the Langum estate swung open to welcome the motorcade.
"I failed," Richard said bitterly. "I waited too long. And he hurt you anyway."
"You didn't fail," I whispered, the weight of his confession crashing over me in massive, intoxicating waves. All those years, I had thought Richard was indifferent, cold, an untouchable god sitting on a throne of gold and steel. I had spent half my life trying to earn a nod of approval from him, misinterpreting his rigid discipline for disdain.
The car came to a smooth halt in front of the massive stone manor. Richard turned back to me. The mask of the calculating CEO was slipping back into place, but the fire in his eyes remained.
"You don't have to answer now," he said quietly. "You have been battered by lies for two days. Take time. Rest. My house is yours."
He reached for the door handle, but I acted on instinct.
My hand shot out, grasping his forearm. The muscles beneath his expensive wool coat were taut as iron. He froze, looking down at my small hand against his sleeve.
"Put it on," I said.
Richard stared at me. "Daphne, you don't have to do this out of spite for Tristan. Or out of gratitude to me."
"It's not spite," I said, my voice gathering a strength that surprised even myself. "Tristan thought he could use my father's memory to hollow me out. He thought he could smear my name across this city and force me into hiding. I'm not hiding. And I'm not running. Put the ring on my finger, Richard."
Richard took a slow, deep breath. His eyes darkened until they were almost black.
He picked up the velvet box. He lifted the ring—the platinum band cold against the morning air—and took my left hand. His touch was remarkably gentle for a man so powerful. As he slid the emerald-cut diamond onto my ring finger, a strange, electric shock traveled up my arm, settling right over my heart.
The ring fit perfectly. Not a fraction of a millimeter off.
"He already had it sized," Sloan’s voice echoed in my mind, though she wasn't here. He had held onto this ring, waiting for this exact moment.
Richard didn't release my hand immediately. He brought my fingers to his lips, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the back of my hand, his gaze never leaving mine.
"From this moment on, Daphne Vance," he murmured against my skin, "your enemies are my enemies. And I show no mercy."
Before I could reply, Richard's personal secretary, Marcus, hurried down the stone steps of the manor, his face pale and clutching a tablet.
"Mr. Langum," Marcus said, breathless as Richard opened the car door. "We have a situation downtown. Tristan Montgomery just forced an emergency press briefing outside the steps of Vance Holdings. He has Arthur's estranged sister, Evelyn, with him."
My blood ran cold. Aunt Evelyn. The greedy, bitter woman my father had cut out of his will five years before his death after catching her selling company shares to short-sellers.
"What is she doing there?" I asked, stepping out of the car.
Marcus swallowed hard, looking between Richard and me. "She’s contesting Arthur Vance’s final will. She claims the trust transfer to Daphne was executed under duress while Arthur was medically incapacitated. And she’s publicly endorsing Tristan as the rightful conservator of the Vance estate."
Richard’s eyes flashed with a cold, terrifying amusement.
May you like
"Evelyn always was a cheap puppet," Richard said smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He turned to me, offering his arm. "Marcus, order the helicopter. It seems we have a press conference to attend."
---
