Chapter 3 - The Fortress on the North ShoreThe interior of Victor’s estate was a stark contrast to the cold, ostentatious marble of Derek’s downtown penthouse. Here, the floors were dark, polished walnut, the walls lined with rich mahogany bookshelves and understated, modern artwork. There was no oppressive ostentation—just an overwhelming sense of quiet power and absolute security.
Victor led me through a grand foyer and up a sweeping curved staircase to the second floor, stopping in front of a heavy oak double door.
"This is the guest suite," he said, turning the handle and pushing it open to reveal a spacious, elegantly decorated bedroom with sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, restless expanse of Lake Michigan. "It has its own en-suite bathroom, a walk-in closet stocked with essentials, and a security lock on the inside that cannot be bypassed from the hall."
I stepped inside, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. I walked over to the window, wrapping my arms around myself as I stared out at the dark water crashing against the distant shoreline. The contrast between my life two hours ago and my life right now was so absolute it felt like an out-of-body experience.
"There's a doctor coming by in twenty minutes," Victor’s voice came from the doorway.
I stiffened, turning around sharply. "A doctor? I don't need a doctor."
"You need to be checked, Lena," Victor said calmly, standing in the threshold with his hands in his pockets. "For internal bruising, for cracked ribs, for whatever else that monster has done to you over the last three years. You don't have to hide it anymore. Not here."
"And if I refuse?" I challenged, crossing my arms defensively over my chest.
"Then I'll sit in this chair by the door until morning," Victor replied without blinking. "And I'll ask again tomorrow."
I stared at him, looking for any trace of mockery, any sign of the manipulative control I had lived under with Derek. But I found nothing. Only an unyielding, terrifyingly calm determination.
"You're impossible," I muttered, turning back toward the window.
"I've been told that by better men than Derek Hail," Victor said, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips before he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
True to his word, twenty minutes later, a discreet, middle-aged woman named Dr. Evelyn Vance—ironically sharing my first name—arrived with a locked medical case. She didn't ask intrusive questions, and she didn't carry the cold clinical detachment of hospital doctors. She treated me with a gentle, practiced professionalism that broke down my remaining defenses.
By the time she finished wrapping my ribs and applying soothing ointment to the dark bruises blossoming across my back and shoulders, tears I had held back for years finally spilled over my lashes.
She didn't pity me. She just squeezed my hand, packed her bag, and whispered, "You're safe here, child. Mr. Salvatore doesn't lose fights."
After she left, I changed into a soft silk nightgown from the closet and sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, staring at the phone resting on the nightstand. It was buzzing incessantly.
Dozens of missed calls.
Dozens of text messages.
All from Derek.
Where the hell are you?
Get back here before I ruin your pathetic family.
You think a thug like Salvatore is going to protect you? He's going to use you and throw you away.
Lena, answer your phone right now or there will be consequences.
My hands shook as I scrolled through the threats. The old terror reared its head—the conditioned reflex telling me to pack my bags, run back, and apologize before he made good on his promises to destroy my younger brother’s career and my mother’s home.
The bedroom door clicked open.
Victor stepped inside, holding a steaming mug of tea. He took one look at my face, saw the phone clutched in my trembling hand, and crossed the room in two strides.
Before I could react, he plucked the phone out of my fingers, tossed it onto the mattress, and crushed it beneath the heel of his heavy shoe with a satisfying, crunching pop of glass and plastic.
May you like
I gasped, staring down at the shattered remains.
"You don't ever have to read his words again," Victor said, his voice low and vibrating with cold fury. "If he wants to talk to you, he has to go through me."
