Whenever Dominic left, Vivien’s smile disappeared like a mask removed after a performance.
“You’re very devoted,” she once told Marin while Isabella sat stiffly beside the fireplace.
Marin folded a blanket. “She deserves devotion.”
“She is cared for.”
“There is a difference.”
Vivien’s eyes sharpened. “Careful. In houses like this, women who think they’re morally superior usually discover they’re only replaceable.”
Marin said nothing. She had learned long ago that not every battle was won by answering.
The Black Car
The first black car appeared outside St. Anne’s on a Tuesday.
Marin noticed it when she picked Eli up. A matte-black sedan with Rhode Island plates. A man wearing sunglasses sat inside even though the sky was cloudy. He watched the school gate with the lazy patience of someone paid not to look away.
Marin held Eli’s hand too tightly.
“Ow, Mom.”
“Sorry, baby.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
That was the first lie.
By Thursday, the car had appeared twice more. By Thursday afternoon, Vivien had said Eli’s name.
Now, as Dominic entered the mansion through the front doors, Marin remained upstairs in Isabella’s room, trying not to shake.
Vivien had left twenty minutes earlier after discovering the call. She had not screamed. That frightened Marin more. Screaming meant panic. Silence meant planning.
Isabella sat beside the window with her writing board returned to her lap. Her hands trembled as she wrote one word.
Eli.
Marin knelt beside her chair. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Isabella’s face changed, not with pity, but with rage so pure it seemed to give strength to her frail body. She tapped once against the board.
“No, I know,” Marin said, her voice breaking. “I know I should have told him.”
Isabella lifted a trembling hand and touched Marin’s cheek. Then she wrote slowly.
Good mother afraid.
Marin covered her mouth. For days she had hated herself for being afraid. Afraid women always looked weak from the outside. She hadn’t realized Isabella saw the strength it took just to stand there.
The heavy oak door of the bedroom clicked open.
Marin spun around, instantly placing herself between Isabella and the door. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. She half-expected Vivien to return with men.
He had removed his suit jacket, but the aura of suppressed violence clung to him like a second skin. His dark eyes swept over the room, taking in Marin’s defensive posture and Isabella’s trembling hands.
“Carlo has Eli,” Dominic said. His voice was a low, steady rumble that commanded the space. “He is safe. He is being brought here.”
Marin’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the arm of Isabella’s chair, a harsh, ragged sob tearing from her throat.
The True Heir
Dominic crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t ask if she was alright. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He reached out and gripped her shoulder, his touch firm and grounding.
Marin looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears. “Vivien… she knows about the car. She knows he watches the neighbor’s dog.”
“Vivien’s men are no longer a concern,” Dominic stated flatly.
He looked past her to his mother. Isabella was watching him with a fierce intensity. She tapped twice on the wooden board. Yes.
“You heard the call,” Marin realized, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
“I heard everything,” Dominic confirmed. “Why didn’t you tell me she was threatening you?”
“Because she is your fiancée,” Marin said, finding her spine. “She is a Morrow. You need her family’s ports. If a hired caregiver accuses the future boss’s wife of extortion without proof, the caregiver disappears. I couldn’t risk Eli.”
Dominic stared at her. In his world, people lied for power, for money, or for survival. Marin had stayed silent purely out of maternal terror. It was a language he understood perfectly.
“Vivien is no longer my fiancée,” Dominic said coldly.
The words hung in the air. The implications were massive. Breaking off the engagement meant insulting the Morrow family. It meant a potential syndicate war.
“You’re canceling the wedding?” Marin asked, stunned.
He pulled a sleek black phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“Silvio,” Dominic ordered. “Lock down the estate. No one enters or leaves without my explicit command. If any Morrow vehicles approach the perimeter, disable them.”
He hung up and turned back to Marin. “Go to the east guest suite. Pack her things. Everything she brought into this house.”
“Me?” Marin whispered.
“Yes,” Dominic said, his eyes narrowing. “You. I want you to be the one who strips her room bare. My men will handle the rest.”
It was a test. He was offering her a chance to reclaim her power, to act not as a frightened servant, but as someone who had his protection.
Marin straightened. For the first time in weeks, the fear in her chest loosened its grip.