Chapter 4 - The Iron Grip of Chicago
I didn't make it out of Wisconsin.
Three hours down a lonely two-lane highway near Green Bay, the engine of my aging sedan sputtered, coughed a plume of white smoke from under the hood, and died completely on a stretch of road surrounded by towering pine trees.
I coasted onto the gravel shoulder, slamming my hands against the steering wheel in frustration.
"Mommy, are we broken?" Leo asked from the back seat, his little brow furrowing with concern.
"We're just taking a little break, sweetie," I lied, forcing a bright, reassuring smile as I stepped out into the humid evening air pop the hood.
Smoke billowed out, smelling intensely of burnt oil. There was no cell service out here—another brilliant decision on my part to avoid tracking signals. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with a four-year-old child and a dead car.
Twenty minutes later, the low, throaty purr of a heavy engine broke the silence of the highway.
A sleek, matte-black SUV with tinted windows pulled up behind my disabled car, its hazard lights flashing in tandem. The passenger door opened, and a towering man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped out—Miller, Damon’s chief of security.
My blood ran instantly cold. I shoved Leo back down into the passenger seat, locking all the doors from the inside, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Miller didn't draw a weapon. He walked slowly toward my window, his expression grim and profoundly weary, as if he had spent the last four years chasing ghosts across every cornfield in America.
"Mrs. Vale," Miller said, his voice carrying clearly through the glass. "Please don't make this difficult. Mr. Vale's private jet is already waiting at Austin Straubel International Airport. He was notified the second Sarah Vance placed her phone call from Oakhaven."
I rolled the window down a mere two inches, my eyes blazing. "I am not going back to him. If you try to touch my son, I swear to God I will fight you with everything I have."
"Nobody is going to hurt the boy, ma'am," Miller sighed, holding up empty hands. "Mr. Vale doesn't want a war. He just wants what belongs to him."
Before I could reply, a second black SUV pulled up directly behind Miller’s vehicle.
The rear door opened, and a pair of polished leather shoes stepped out onto the asphalt.
Damon Vale.
He hadn't changed—if anything, time had only chiseled the sharp angles of his face into something even more formidable. He wore an unbuttoned charcoal suit jacket, his white shirt collar open at the neck, his dark hair threaded with just a hint of silver at the temples that only added to his dangerous, commanding aura. His ice-gray eyes locked onto mine through the windshield, carrying a weight of raw, suppressed fury and desperate hunger that made the air feel thin.
He walked slowly around my disabled car, his gaze never leaving my face. When he reached my window, he placed both hands flat against the glass, leaning down so our eyes were level.
"Four years, Elena," Damon said, his voice dangerously soft, vibrating with an intensity that rattled my bones. "Four years you played hide-and-seek across America. Did you really think you could outrun me forever?"
"I wasn't running from you, Damon," I whispered back, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "I was running away from a man who told me he never loved me."
Damon’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. "Words spoken in the heat of anger—"
"Weren't anger at all," I interrupted fiercely. "They were the absolute truth. You didn't love me then, and you don't love me now. You're only here because your pride is wounded and you hate losing control of your possessions!"
"Look at me," Damon commanded, slamming his palm flat against the glass.
The sharp thud made Leo whimper in the back seat.
Hearing his son’s frightened voice, Damon froze. His hand slid slowly down the glass as the back door of the sedan clicked open. Leo poked his little dark-haired head out, blinking sleepily at the intimidating strangers surrounding our car.
Damon stepped back slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. His ice-gray eyes shifted from my face to Leo’s.
He didn't need a DNA test.
Looking at Leo was like looking into a mirror reflecting Damon’s own face thirty years ago.
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Damon’s breath caught in his throat. The formidable, untouchable billionaire staggered backward a half-step, his hands trembling as he stared at the little boy sitting in the back seat of a rusted-out sedan.
"He's..." Damon whispered, his voice cracking for the first time in his life. "He's mine."
