Chapter 10 - The Sovereign Table
One year later, the grand ballroom of Ashbourne House was once again filled with two hundred of the most powerful people on the eastern seaboard.
The Persian rug had been replaced with an antique Aubusson tapestry woven in deep burgundy and gold. The chandeliers blazed with warm, inviting light. But tonight, nobody was whispering behind their hands. Nobody was smirking.
Tonight, they had gathered for the wedding of Dominic Vale and Nora Hayes.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, wearing an ivory silk gown that cascaded in heavy, graceful folds around my hips and swept behind me in a six-foot train. At my throat rested an antique emerald necklace—a Vale family heirloom presented to me by Dominic’s grandmother that very morning.
I was not thin. I was not delicate. I was five-foot-six, solid, powerful, and radiant. And as I looked down at the room, every single eye looked up at me with genuine, undeniable respect.
Dominic stood waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, looking impossibly handsome in his black tuxedo. When I reached the bottom step, he took my hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles in front of everyone.
“You own this house,” he said softly, so only I could hear. “You own the city. And you own me.”
“An equal partnership,” I reminded him with a smile.
“An equal partnership,” he agreed.
The music swelled, and we moved to the center of the dance floor. Among the guests, the kitchen and housekeeping staff were not hidden away in the service corridors; they were standing at the perimeter, dressed in formal wear, invited as honored guests by the master and mistress of the house.
Vincenzo raised a glass of Bordeaux toward us, smiling warmly.
As Dominic spun me across the polished marble, my mind drifted for a brief second to the cold November night twelve months ago—to the shattered crystal, the sharp bite of the riding crop, and the woman on her knees who had refused to apologize for saving a man’s life.
Dominic pulled me closer, his hand resting securely against my back, right where the scars had long since faded.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked gently.
May you like
I looked into his gray eyes, steady and filled with an unshakeable love that had withstood gunfire, treason, and the weight of two broken worlds.
“I’m thinking,” I said, resting my cheek against his lapel, “that I’m finally in my place.”
