Chapter 3 - The Fortress on Lake Shore DriveBy 3:00 AM, the armored Maybach glided through the iron security gates of the Vance Manor perched on the crest of Lake Shore Drive overlooking Lake Michigan.
The estate was an immense, stone fortress surrounded by high security walls, infrared cameras, and broad-shouldered men in dark suits carrying concealed sidearms.
When the car stopped outside the grand front entrance, Damon carried me up the marble steps himself, taking me straight to the master guest suite on the second floor.
The room was warm, firelit, and filled with the faint, comforting scent of cedarwood and lavender. A state-of-the-art medical bed had been set up near the stone fireplace, alongside a dedicated nursing team from Mount Sinai Hospital.
Dr. Aris worked for two hours—stabilizing my chest with a specialized compression wrap, setting an IV line for antibiotics and hydration, and stitching the deep cut on my forehead where Trent had thrown me against the coffee table.
Throughout the entire procedure, Damon didn't leave the room. He stood near the window, unbuttoning his vest, his dark eyes watching every move the medical team made.
At 5:30 AM, after the nurses had administered a mild sedative and stepped out into the hallway, the room fell into a quiet, warm stillness.
I lay beneath warm cashmere blankets, my breathing steady and painless for the first time in months.
The heavy oak door creaked open softly.
Damon stepped inside wearing a dark linen shirt with his sleeves rolled back to his forearms, carrying a silver tray with a cup of warm tea. He walked across the Persian rug, stopping beside my bed, dropping onto one knee flat on the floorboards before me.
"How are you feeling, Clara?" he asked gently, setting the tea on the side table.
"Like I'm dreaming," I whispered, my hazel eyes fixed on his severe face. "I thought I was going to die on that carpet tonight, Damon."
Damon reached out his broad hand, his long fingers gently covering mine over the blanket.
"No one dies in my city without my permission, Clara," Damon spoke, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, unshakeable authority.
"What... what happened to Trent?" I asked, a faint tremor of my old fear returning to my voice. "Is he... is he looking for me?"
Damon offered a rare, subtle smirk—a dark, breathtaking look that lit up his severe features.
"Trent is currently sitting in a windowless room beneath my primary shipping terminal at Pier 42," Damon revealed deadpan, every word dropped like a block of iron onto the floorboards. "And at eight o'clock this morning... your brother Ben is going to join him."
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My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "Ben...? My brother?!"
"Your brother left you in that apartment with a killer, Clara," Damon replied flatly. "It's time he learned what happens when a man abandons his blood."
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