Chapter 4 - The Puppet Master
For the next fourteen days, I played the helpless victim with masterclass precision.
I remained in the hospital room, allowing my mother to visit every afternoon to complain about caterers and floral arrangements for what she called "Sloane’s healing ceremony."
“It’s what you would have wanted, Elena,” my mother lied smoothly one Tuesday, adjusting her pearl necklace. “Sloane is so fragile. Derek holding her hand through this tragedy is the only thing keeping her alive.”
“Of course, Mother,” I murmured from my pillows, keeping my eyes half-closed. “Sloane deserves to be happy.”
Derek visited only once.
He stood near the door, keeping his trench coat on, refusing to step close to the bed. He looked nervous, his eyes darting toward the heart monitor as if he expected it to start screaming again.
“How are you feeling, El?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Tired, Derek,” I said softly. “My memory is still so hazy. The doctors say I shouldn't try to remember anything from the accident.”
A visible surge of relief washed over his features. He stepped forward, putting on his familiar, charming smile—the one that used to make my heart race.
“That’s best,” Derek said smoothly. “Focus on recovering. I’m handling everything with the estate. You don't need to worry about a thing.”
“Thank you, Derek,” I said, forcing my hands to remain still under the blanket. “I don't know what I would do without you.”
When he left, I immediately threw open my laptop.
Julian’s private team had spent the last ten days working in absolute secrecy. Through Arthur Pendelton, we had secretly bought up Derek’s firm’s debt from four secondary lenders. We had secured the deed to the Midtown Housing Project. And, most importantly, Julian’s team had intercepted the custom wedding dress Sloane had taken from my hospital room.
Sloane had taken the dress to a high-end tailor on Madison Avenue to have it altered to fit her smaller frame.
What she didn't know was that the tailor worked exclusively for Julian’s mother.
Instead of altering it, the tailor made an exact replica using cheap polyester silk, while my grandmother’s authentic ivory silk gown was secretly cleaned, restored, and delivered to my private suite at the St. Regis Hotel—where I moved forty-eight hours before the wedding under an assumed name.
On the morning of the wedding, I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in my hotel suite.
My back still ached with a deep, dull throb, but I stood straight. The physical therapist Julian hired had worked with me four hours a day in total secret. I could walk. I could stand. And I could carry the weight of what was about to happen.
The ivory silk gown clung to my body like a second skin, flowing down to a train that swept the floor with regal grace. My hair was swept up in a sophisticated knot, secured with my grandmother’s diamond hairpins.
A quiet knock sounded at the suite door.
Julian walked in, dressed in a flawless black tux with a white bow tie. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me.
For the first time since I met him, the cold, calculating expression on Julian Vance-Vane’s face completely dissolved, replaced by a dark, intense appreciation that sent a unexpected shiver down my spine.
“Miss Mercer,” Julian murmured, walking over to me. “You look... dangerous.”
“I feel lethal,” I replied, looking up at him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat a massive, emerald-cut diamond ring that caught the morning light in blinding flashes of ice and blue.
He took my left hand, sliding the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
“The city clerk signed our marriage certificate thirty minutes ago,” Julian revealed, his thumb gently brushing my knuckles. “You are officially Elena Vance-Vane. The Mercer trust assets are legally locked inside my holding firm.”
I looked down at the ring, feeling the cold weight of absolute security. “And Derek?”
May you like
Julian smiled—a terrifying, beautiful smile. “Derek is currently at the St. Patrick’s Cathedral reception hall, raising a glass of champagne to celebrate your death.”
“Then let’s go say hello,” I said.
