Chapter 7 - The Sovereign’s Home
At 9:30 PM, the black SUV pulled into the iron gates of the Vance estate in Greenwich.
The house was a massive, historic stone manor set on forty acres of private woodland, surrounded by high walls, security towers, and rolling lawns illuminated by soft landscape lights.
Inside, the grand hall was warm, lit by a roaring fire in the main hearth.
Eleanor sat on the long leather sofa in Dante’s private study, wrapped in a thick, dry fleece robe. A cup of hot chamomile tea sat on the low table in front of her, steaming softly into the quiet room.
Dante walked in, having removed his wool coat and tie. He wore a simple black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate ink work that covered his wrists and hands.
He carried a small silver bowl filled with warm water and a soft linen cloth.
He knelt on the floor directly in front of her.
"Dante," Eleanor said, reaching for the cloth. "You don't have to do that. The servants—"
"The servants are off tonight," Dante interrupted softly. "Hold still."
He took the wet linen cloth and gently wiped the side of her neck, where a tiny trace of dried sticky syrup had escaped her earlier wash. His touch was rhythmic, reverent, and extraordinarily delicate.
Eleanor watched his face in the amber firelight.
The severe, terrifying man who had brought two major city banking executives to their knees forty-five minutes ago was gone. In his place was the man who checked her car’s tire pressure every Sunday morning, who left soft kisses on her forehead before leaving for the docks at 5:00 AM, and who had never once made her feel small for taking up space in his world.
"Are you angry with me?" Eleanor asked softly.
Dante paused, his hand holding the linen cloth against her collarbone. He looked up into her hazel eyes.
"Angry with you?" he asked, genuine surprise in his voice. "Why would I be angry with you, Eleanor?"
"Because I didn't tell you earlier," she whispered, looking down at her hands. "Because I let it happen. Because I tried to handle it myself instead of calling you right away."
Dante set the silver bowl on the table. He reached out and took both of her hands in his, wrapping his large, warm fingers around her slender ones.
"Eleanor," he said, his voice dropping into a register of profound, unwavering depth. "You held a tray of glass, stood between a cruel woman and a six-year-old child, and took the blow yourself. You didn't run. You didn't cry. You looked into her camera and demanded dignity."
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He brought her hands up to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly.
"You acted like a queen," Dante murmured. "I did not save you tonight, Eleanor. I simply showed the world what happens when someone touches my queen."
