Page 47 of His Vow

I met Declan's gaze. "I'm here. The Alderton close needs attention. That's what I'm focused on."

He studied me for a long beat. Then he leaned back. Julian's pen resumed its rhythm. The moment passed — not resolved, deferred. Filed under things to revisit when the evidence accumulated.

An envelope landed on the table. Gerald Ashworth's handwriting on the front. Julian pulled it open, scanned the card inside, and held it up.

"Lattimore Holdings Annual Gala. All three of us. Black tie." He grinned. "Hugh Lattimore wants the Vanguard at his party. That's either an alliance or an ambush."

Declan looked at me. "You're practically family over there now. What's the read?"

"Business development. Hugh wants us visible. Gerald's been pushing for closer ties."

My voice was steady. My stomach wasn't. The gala was three weeks away. Soleil would be on my arm. Hugh would be across the room. The Vanguard, the vendetta, and the woman I was falling for, all in the same room at the same time. The architecture I'd built for fifteen years narrowed to a single evening.

"We accept," Declan said. "All three."

Julian slid the invitation back into the envelope. "I'll need a new suit. Something that says I'm here to drink your champagne and evaluate your vulnerabilities."

"So your regular suit," Declan said.

"Exactly."

I left the Vanguard at noon and drove to Lattimore Holdings.

The fourteenth floor was quiet. My temporary office waited — the system badge, the angled monitor, a cold cup of coffee still sitting beside the keyboard. I closed the door and pulled up the Helios file.

The payments had connected to something new. A legal firm — Bradshaw & Keene, midtown, no website, no public profile. They specialized in one thing: NDAs and settlements. The same billing structure I'd seen in Adira's case. The same retainer format, the same payment schedule, the same shell company routing. But these weren't Adira's files. These were other names. Other settlements. A pattern spanning decades — women, mostly, who had crossed paths with Lattimore interests and been quietly, expensively erased.

I photographed each page. The phone was filled with images. The file grew.

The clock on my screen read 6:55 p.m. I looked at it, and the floor dropped from under me.

7:00 p.m. The gallery. Soleil.

I pulled out my phone and dialed. She picked up on the first ring.

"Are you outside? I'm grabbing my coat."

"I'm not going to make it. I'm still at your father's building."

A pause. The sound of her hand stilling on fabric. "Can it wait? I made us a reservation."

"I need to finish this. There's a portfolio review Hugh needs by morning."

"Nolan." My name in her mouth. Flat. Tired. The sound of a woman who had heard this before. "Just leave it. Come to me."

"I can't. Not tonight."

The silence lasted three seconds. I counted.

"Fine." She said it gently, the edges tucked in, the disappointment folded so small it almost disappeared. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

She hung up. I set the phone on the desk and stared at the screen.

Through the office wall, Hugh's voice filtered in. A conversation I wasn't meant to hear. He was speaking to someone — a junior executive. The temperature dropped syllable by syllable. No shouting, no raised voice. Just a man slowly recalibrating how little you mattered. Warmth peeled away, revealing the cold machinery underneath.

The executive's voice went quiet. Then the door opened. A young man — mid-twenties, suit too new, face too pale — walked past my glass wall with the expression of someone who had just learned what they were worth.