The air inside the boardroom at the top of the Vaughan Group headquarters was freezing.
Twenty senior executives sat around the massive circular mahogany table. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
At the head of the table sat Fidel Vaughan.
He rested his elbows on the table, his long, pale fingers pressing brutally hard into his temples. His knuckles were white.
A blinding, white-hot pain pulsed behind his eyes, a physical weight crushing his skull. The chronic nerve damage felt like shattered glass grinding against his brain with every heartbeat.
A middle-aged executive stood at the projector, his voice shaking as he read the quarterly earnings report.
Fidel's jaw ticked. The man's voice sounded like a drill against his eardrums.
Fidel grabbed the heavy crystal water glass in front of him. He slammed it down onto the mahogany wood.
The glass shattered. Water and sharp shards exploded across the table.
The executives flinched in unison, pulling their hands back into their laps.
"You're fired," Fidel said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, barely above a whisper, but it carried to every corner of the room. "Get out."
The executive went pale. He didn't argue. He gathered his folders with trembling hands and practically ran out of the boardroom.
Julian Chamberlain, Fidel's executive assistant, stepped forward from the shadows behind Fidel's chair.
Julian pulled a sanitized wet wipe from a foil packet and handed it down.
Fidel took it. He wiped the moisture from his fingers, his face twisted in deep disgust at the feeling of the contaminated water on his skin.
Inside his tailored suit jacket, a private encrypted phone began to vibrate against his ribs.
Fidel pulled it out. The caller ID read: Cornelius Vaughan.
Fidel's stomach churned with irritation. He stood up, towering over the table, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Wall Street.
He swiped to answer. "Grandfather."
"Have you found her yet?" Cornelius's voice barked through the speaker, old but full of iron authority. "The girl from the estate. The one who saved my life five years ago."
Fidel squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of agony ripped through his head. "I have people looking."
"Look harder," Cornelius demanded. "You owe her your life. I want her found, and I want the engagement announced before the end of the year. That is an order, Fidel."
Fidel's teeth ground together. He hated the idea of a forced marriage. He hated being tied down. But his grandfather held the final keys to the family trust.
"Fine," Fidel gritted out. He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
He turned to Julian. "Go to Long Island. The Sanders house. See if the girl is there."
Julian nodded, his face impassive. "Right away, sir."
An hour later, a black Maybach with tinted windows rolled to a stop in front of the Sanders residence.
Julian stepped out. He adjusted his custom-tailored suit jacket and walked up the driveway. He pressed the doorbell.
Inside, Cornelia was screaming at Aleta because her credit card had just been declined online for a designer mourning veil.
Hearing the bell, Cornelia stomped to the front door and yanked it open, ready to yell at whoever was interrupting her tantrum.
The words died in her throat.
She stared at Julian. She took in the impeccable suit, the expensive watch on his wrist, and the gleaming Maybach parked at the curb.
Her posture instantly changed. She straightened her spine, smoothed her hair, and forced a sweet, polite smile onto her face.
"Can I help you?" Cornelia asked, her voice dropping an octave.
Julian studied her face for a second. He had only a heavily degraded security still from that night-a blurry profile of a girl covered in ash and soot. Cornelia matched the general height and build, but he needed to be certain.
"We have conflicting reports about the young woman's name at this residence," Julian probed smoothly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed her micro-expressions. "Could you clarify?"
Cornelia's heart slammed against her ribs.
She knew exactly what he was talking about. Eleanora had gone to that estate. Eleanora had come back with burn marks on her hands.
Cornelia's eyes darted to the gold pin on Julian's lapel-the Vaughan family crest.
Greed, hot and heavy, flooded her veins. Eleanora was gone. Kicked out. Nobody knew where she was.
Cornelia looked Julian right in the eye. "That would be me," she lied smoothly. "I'm the only daughter here. My name is Cornelia Sanders."
Julian analyzed her steady gaze and confident posture. The lie was seamless enough to pass his initial scrutiny. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick, gold-embossed envelope. He held it out to her.
"Miss Sanders," Julian said, his tone shifting to one of deep respect. "On behalf of the Vaughan family, I am here to formally invite you to meet with Mr. Fidel Vaughan. You are to be his future wife."
Cornelia's breath hitched. Her fingers shook as she reached out and took the envelope. The thick paper felt heavy in her hands.
"Thank you," she whispered, fighting to keep the manic grin off her face.
Julian bowed his head slightly, turned around, and walked back to the Maybach.
Cornelia stood in the doorway, clutching the envelope to her chest, watching the car drive away.
