Chapter 3 - THE SNAKE AT THE TABLEThe snow had stopped by eight in the morning, leaving the estate wrapped in a blinding, brilliant blanket of white. The tall oak trees stood like silver guardians along the long, winding drive as my black sedan pulled up to the front entrance.
My driver, Frank—the man who had waited outside the hospital with me all night—killed the engine. He turned around in his seat, his broad, weathered face grim.
"How do you want to play this, Boss?" Frank asked, his hand resting casually near the shoulder holster beneath his dark wool coat. "I can have ten of our boys from the dock yard inside the house in twenty minutes. We load the girl and her father into a boat at Pier 12 and let them explain themselves to the fish."
"No," I said, looking up at the high, arched windows of the dining room. "A sudden disappearance creates questions for the federal prosecutors who are already eyeing the Vandermark accounts. If Celeste vanishes today, her father plays the grieving victim and freezes the Vance shipping assets through emergency injunctions. I want them destroyed legally, financially, and completely, before they even realize their trap has sprung."
"And the nurse?" Frank asked.
"She stays at the hospital under double guard," I ordered. "Assign two of our best men to her door. No one enters that room without my personal clearance—not a doctor, not a janitor, not a flower delivery. If anyone so much as looks at her wrong, break their fingers."
"Understood."
I stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at my cheeks, and walked up the broad stone steps. The front doors swung open silently. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, was standing in the foyer, her face pale and nervous.
"Mr. Vance," she whispered, her eyes darting toward the grand staircase. "Miss Vandermark is in the morning room. She... she asked about the night nurse three times already. I told her the hospital hadn't released an update."
"You did well, Mrs. Gable," I said smoothly, unbuttoning my overcoat and handing it to her. "Tell the kitchen staff to take the rest of the morning off. I want the main house completely quiet."
"Yes, sir."
I walked down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway toward the morning room. The scent of fresh coffee and toasted pastries drifted through the air, mixing with the sharp, floral perfume that Celeste favored.
When I pushed open the double doors, Celeste was sitting near the bay window, a delicate porcelain teacup held in her manicured hands. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater, her golden hair swept back into an effortless knot, looking for all the world like a picture of high-society serenity.
She looked up, a soft, sympathetic smile instantly spreading across her lips.
"Marcus, darling," she breathed, setting her cup down and rising gracefully from her chair. She glided across the Persian rug toward me, reaching out her arms. "I’ve been frantic all morning! How is that poor girl? The doctors... is she going to be all right?"
I stood perfectly still as she wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her cheek against my chest. Her skin was warm, her scent intoxicating—the same woman I had kissed, the same woman I had agreed to share my life with. Looking at her now, it was almost impossible to reconcile this elegant creature with the woman who had dragged a bleeding nurse toward a dark cellar six hours ago.
"She’s stable," I said, my tone completely neutral, keeping my hands at my sides rather than wrapping them around her. "Concussion, a few fractures. She’s heavily sedated."
Celeste pulled back slightly, her bright blue eyes searching my face with a practiced, razor-sharp intensity. "Did she... did she say what happened? She was so hysterical last night, Marcus. Pushing over the antique glass, screaming about intruders. I honestly thought she had suffered a psychotic break."
"She didn't say much," I lied smoothly, walking past her to pour myself a cup of black coffee from the silver carafe on the sideboard. "The doctors say she has retrograde amnesia from the blow to her head. She doesn't remember the fall, the conservatory, or anything that happened after midnight."
I turned around slowly, taking a sip of the hot coffee, watching her face over the rim of the cup.
A micro-expression passed across Celeste’s features—a tiny, split-second relaxation of the tight muscles around her eyes, a subtle drop in her shoulders. Relief.
"Oh, thank God," Celeste murmured, putting a delicate hand over her heart. "Poor thing. The stress of caring for your mother must have finally broken her mind. It’s a demanding job, Marcus. I told you months ago we should have placed your mother in a proper private facility in Palm Beach."
"My mother stays here," I said, my voice dropping an octave.
Celeste blinked, surprised by the cold firmness in my tone. She quickly recovered, stepping closer and placing a gentle hand on my lapel. "Of course, darling. Whatever you think is best. But we must hire a proper, agency-certified team now. We can't have unstable staff running around the estate, especially with the wedding three weeks away. The press is already hovering outside the gates."
"Speaking of the wedding," I said, walking toward the window and looking out at the snow-covered gardens, "your father called my office early this morning."
Celeste froze. "Did he?"
"He wants to execute the pre-nuptial asset consolidation documents this afternoon," I continued, turning to look at her. "He suggested we sign them at his club downtown before the board meeting."
Celeste’s eyes lit up with a sudden, greedy spark that she couldn't quite conceal. "Well... that makes sense, doesn't it? It streamlines the shipping registry transfer before the press conference on Friday. It will show the market that the Vance and Vandermark merger is completely solid."
"It certainly will," I agreed smoothly. "Tell your father I’ll meet him at the Metropolitan Club at two o'clock. And bring your family's personal legal counsel. I want every document signed, sealed, and witnessed today."
May you like
Celeste beamed, stepping forward and kissing my cheek. "You won't regret this, Marcus. Together, we’re going to own this city."
"I have no doubt about that, Celeste," I said softly, staring at the small, faint scratch on her right wrist—a scratch left by Delia’s fingernails as she fought for her life in the conservatory. "We’re going to give this city a show it will never forget."
