Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary at the ManorBy 11:00 PM, a fleet of four midnight-black armored Maybachs glided through the heavy iron security gates of the Hayes Estate in North Brooklyn.
The estate was a magnificent fifty-acre limestone manor built on the cliffs overlooking the East River, surrounded by high stone walls, ancient oak trees, and forty broad-shouldered security operators in dark suits posted along the perimeter.
Declan carried Mave out of the vehicle in his arms, wrapping his dark coat around her shoulders to shield her from the freezing rain.
Inside the grand master suite on the second floor, a warm fire crackled merrily in the stone hearth, casting golden, dancing reflections across the mahogany beams and plush velvet carpets.
A team of private trauma doctors and female nurses hired by Declan were waiting in the adjoining medical room.
For two hours, while Declan managed operations from his ground-floor study, the medical team treated Mave’s bruised wrists, administered anti-inflammatory medication for her ribs, and provided a warm, lavender-scented bath and soft cashmere clothing.
When the medical team finally departed, Mave sat on the edge of the large king-sized bed, wearing a dark green cashmere sweater and soft trousers, her dark hair wet from the shower, drying in soft waves over her shoulders.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The heavy mahogany door opened gently.
Declan walked inside carrying a silver tray with two mugs of hot chamomile tea, fresh pastries, and a thick legal ledger.
He set the tray flat onto the bedside table, sitting beside her on the mattress, his storm-gray eyes scanning her face with a quiet, intense relief that made her heart flutter against her ribs.
"How is the pain, Mave?" Declan asked softly, his deep baritone filling the quiet, warm room.
"It's gone," Mave admitted, looking down at her neatly bandaged wrists, then raising her hazel eyes to meet his. "Mr. Hayes... why are you doing all of this for me? You didn't know me five hours ago."
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Declan set his tea mug down, taking her small, warm hand into his broad, calloused palm.
"Because five years ago, Mave," Declan revealed, his voice thick with deep, genuine emotion, "I saw a photograph of a ten-year-old girl in your mother's private trust files—a girl holding an easel, painting landscapes near the docks, wearing a gold pendant with your mother's initials. I swore that if I ever crossed paths with Clara Vance's daughter... I would give her the life she was stolen from."
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