Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Conservatory
Dominic did not raise his hands. He didn't flinch.
He recognized the man standing in the doorway immediately. Julian Vance—Clara’s younger brother, a man who had left New York six years ago after claiming he couldn't stand to live in the city where his sister had died.
"Julian," Dominic said, stepping deliberately into the line of sight between the gun and Elena. "I was told you were living in Paris."
"Plans change when old graves start unearthing themselves, Dominic," Julian replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "Give me the paper."
"Did Vivien send you?" Dominic asked, taking a slow half-step to the left, angling himself toward the cover of the marble pillar. "Or are you working for whoever bought those nerve-agent sleepers in the basement?"
Julian let out a short, bitter laugh. "You still don't understand the board on which you're playing, do you? Vivien didn't send me. I've been hunting her for seven years. I broke into this house tonight to kill her—and I would have done it if that little maid hadn't screamed when she caught me in the dressing room."
Dominic's eyes narrowed. "The blood on the floor."
"It's mine," Julian spat, pulling back his coat to reveal a deep, red-soaked tear across his left ribs. "Your quiet, gentle wife cut me with a letter opener before dropping through the secret laundry chute behind her closet. She moves like a professional assassin, Dominic. Because that's precisely what she was trained to be."
Elena gasped behind Dominic, clutching his sleeve. "Mr. Vale... he's telling the truth! I saw her! When he came into the room, she didn't cry. She didn't panic. She pulled a blade from her vanity mirror and attacked him!"
Dominic's mind raced, replaying seven years of domestic tranquility. Vivien stitching a torn hem. Vivien tending to her orchids in the glass conservatory. Vivien resting her head on his chest while they read by the fireplace.
It was a masterclass in deep-cover tradecraft.
"Where is she now, Julian?" Dominic asked softly.
"Where do you think?" Julian grunted, wincing as he pressed a gloved hand to his side. "Clara’s letter told you, didn't it? The conservatory. The foundation."
A sudden wave of heat surged through Dominic's veins—not panic, but a dark, focused rage. He pulled his own weapon from his holster, the heavy steel settling into his grip with familiar, lethal comfort.
"Dante," Dominic spoke into his lapel mic, bypassing Marcus entirely. "Bring four men to the glass conservatory. Do not engage anyone inside until I arrive. And if you see my wife, do not fire—raise a perimeter."
"Understood, Boss," Dante’s voice crackled back through the earpiece.
Dominic turned to Julian. "You're bleeding out. Go down to the kitchen, find Marcus, and tell him I said to patch you up. If you try to follow me, I'll put a bullet through your other side."
Julian stared at Dominic for a long second, then lowered his weapon with a tired, ragged nod. "You won't find the librarian in that glass house, Dominic. You'll find the woman who erased my family."
Dominic ignored him. He grabbed Elena by the shoulder and pushed her toward the service stairs. "Go to the security room. Lock the iron door. Don't open it for anyone except me."
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, Dominic turned and strode down the long, pitch-black gallery toward the east wing of the estate.
The conservatory was a massive, dome-shaped glass structure built six months after their wedding. Vivien had insisted on it, claiming she needed a warm, bright space to cultivate rare tropical flora. Dominic had spared no expense, spending millions to import Victorian ironwork and thick, reinforced glass panels.
As he approached the heavy double doors of the conservatory, the smell of damp soil, blooming jasmine, and cold rain filled the hallway.
One of the glass doors was standing ajar.
Dominic stepped inside. The storm outside battered the glass roof above, creating a deafening drumroll of falling water. Flashlight beam low, he navigated the narrow brick paths winding through towering ferns, exotic palms, and stone fountains.
In the center of the conservatory, where the rare moon-orchids grew around a sunken stone bench, a single amber lantern glowed softly.
Sitting on the bench, wearing a dark trench coat over her silk evening dress, was Vivien.
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She wasn't running. She wasn't hiding.
She was calmly holding an antique brass key in her slender, manicured hands, staring down at a freshly removed stone slab in the floor beneath her feet.
