Chapter 6

Ellie POV

The silence here in Maine held a texture entirely different from the silence in New York.

In the city, silence had been a weapon. It was Marcus withholding affection like a punishment. It was the servants averting their gaze as I wept in the hallway, pretending I was invisible. It was the breath held in the terrifying second before a gunshot.

Here, in Julian Croft's estate, the silence was just... quiet. It was the organic sound of wind combing through the pine trees and the rhythmic, distant crash of the ocean against the cliffs.

I sat in the library, a heavy wool blanket tucked securely around my legs. My arm remained in a sling, and the bandage on my head itched with the prickly sign of healing, but the painkillers had dulled the sharpest edges of the agony into a distant throb.

"You haven't turned a page in an hour," a deep voice noted.

I looked up. Julian leaned against the doorframe, relaxed and imposing. Gone were the Italian suits; today, he wore a thick cable-knit sweater and dark jeans. He looked less like a rival Don and more like a man who chopped his own wood to keep the fire burning.

"I'm thinking," I said.

"About him?"

"About me," I corrected. "About who exactly I am when I'm not Mrs. Marcus Thorne."

Julian walked into the room, his stride silent, and placed a steaming mug of tea on the table beside me. "You are Ellie Vance. You are the woman who took a money-laundering front and carved it into a legitimate, award-winning design firm. You are the woman who survived a car crash and a drowning in the span of a single hour."

"I survived because you pulled me out," I whispered.

"I pulled you out of the water," he said, his grey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned. "But you kept yourself alive long enough for me to get there."

His parents, Catherine and Arthur, walked in a moment later. They were the antithesis of everything Marcus's parents represented. Warm. Open. They didn't look at me like a political asset or a liability to be managed. They looked at me like a guest who simply needed healing.

"We're making stew," Catherine said, offering a gentle smile. "You need meat on those bones, dear."

It was peaceful. It was terrifying. I wasn't used to kindness that didn't come with a hidden invoice.

My phone buzzed on the table, shattering the moment. The screen lit up with a message from Chloe.

*He bought her a jet. A pink jet, El. The tabloids are calling it the 'Love Bird'.*

I picked up the phone, my fingers cold. Chloe had sent pictures. Marcus and Izzy, standing on the tarmac. He was kissing her forehead, his posture radiating a possessive pride.

He had never bought me a jet. He had barely remembered to buy me flowers unless his assistant put a reminder on his calendar.

"He's spending capital he doesn't have," Julian noted, his gaze dark as he looked over my shoulder at the screen. "The other families are getting restless. A Don who empties the war chest for a mistress looks weak."

"He thinks he's untouchable," I said.

"He's reckless," Julian corrected. "And reckless men make fatal mistakes."

The phone rang in my hand, vibrating against my palm. It wasn't Chloe this time.

It was Beatrice Thorne. Marcus's mother.

My stomach tightened into a knot. I debated letting it go to voicemail, but old habits die hard. The fear of disobeying the matriarch was etched into my marrow.

I answered. "Hello, Beatrice."

"Eleanor," her voice was sharp, like shards of breaking glass. "We need to talk."

"I'm recovering, Beatrice. I'm not in the city."

"I know where you are. Consorting with the Crofts. It's embarrassing, Eleanor. You are making us look like fools."

"Your son tried to kill me," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of rage and trauma.

"It was an accident," she snapped, dismissing my near-death experience as a triviality. "And now you are blowing it out of proportion. We are holding a dinner on Friday. A reconciliation dinner. You will be there."

"I'm not coming back."

"You will," she said, her voice dropping an octave into a lethal calm. "Because if you don't, I will make sure that design firm of yours is audited by the IRS, the FBI, and anyone else I can pay off. I will burn your legacy to the ground before the ink dries on the divorce papers. You want your assets? You come and play nice for one night. Show the world we are civilized."

She hung up.

I stared at the phone, the silence of the room rushing back in.

"She threatened the firm?" Julian asked. He had heard every word.

"She knows it's the only thing that is truly mine," I said, my voice hollowing out. "It's my money. My future."

"Don't go," Julian said immediately. "It's a trap."

"I know it's a trap," I said, forcing myself to stand. My legs were weak, trembling under my weight, but they held. "But if I don't go, they win. They take my money, my reputation, and my freedom. I have to go back. One last time."

I looked at Julian.

"I'm going to walk into the lion's den," I said. "And I'm going to get what I'm owed."

Julian didn't try to stop me. He just nodded, a silent understanding passing between us.

"Then I'm coming with you," he said. "I'll wait in the car. If they touch you, I burn the city."