Chapter 3 - The Matriarch’s Warning
The Vale family estate in Lake Forest was built in 1912: an imposing limestone manor surrounded by eight-foot stone walls, iron gates, and centuries-old oaks stripped bare by the coming winter.
Dominic led Sophia through the towering mahogany double doors at noon.
She had refused to stay locked inside the penthouse like a prisoner. If she was going to be the wife of Dominic Vale, she needed to understand the monster’s lair.
Waiting for them in the grand conservatory was Eleanor Vale.
Dominic’s mother sat near the glass wall overlooking the dead gardens, a bone-china teacup balanced in her porcelain fingers. At sixty-five, Eleanor had the poise of a dowager empress: silver hair swept into an immaculate chignon, a tailored black wool dress, and eyes the color of winter frost.
“Dominic,” Eleanor said, her voice smooth and brittle as blown glass. “You brought the little curator to my house. How theatrical.”
“Mother,” Dominic replied, his arm firmly settled around Sophia’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. “You will address my wife with respect.”
Eleanor set her teacup down with a sharp *clink*. Her eyes traveled down Sophia’s frame, lingering on the high-collared cashmere sweater chosen specifically to conceal the purple fingerprints around her throat.
“Wife,” Eleanor repeated the word as if it carried an unpleasant taste. “A secret ceremony in Maine. A common girl who runs a boutique gallery on my family’s property. And now, Julian Cross is circulating photographs across the city of some broken-nosed Seattle degenerate grabbing her by the neck in her own lobby.”
Sophia’s spine straightened. “His name is Liam Prescott, Mrs. Vale. And he is not my problem anymore.”
Eleanor’s eyebrow arched in cold amusement. “Isn’t he? A woman’s past never truly dies, my dear. In our world, a single vulnerability is an invitation for wolves. Dominic has spent ten years building a reputation of stone and steel. One week with you, and he’s personally beating up drunkards on gallery floors and sending our security force into public precincts.”
“That’s enough,” Dominic growled, the room’s temperature dropping five degrees.
“No, it isn’t enough!” Eleanor stood up, her cold facade cracking to reveal a sharp, aristocratic rage. “The board meets on Monday. The Rossi family is asking questions about the southern freight lines. And Julian Cross is smelling blood in the water! If you think you can bring a wounded bird into this family and play prince charming without consequences, Dominic, you are a fool!”
“She is not a wounded bird,” Dominic said, stepping forward, his presence eclipsing the room. “She is the mother of my child.”
A deafening silence fell over the conservatory.
The wind rattled the high glass panes above them.
Eleanor stopped breathing. Her gaze darted from Dominic’s unyielding face down to Sophia’s stomach, her eyes wide with shock.
“You’re… pregnant?” Eleanor breathed.
Sophia did not look down. She met Eleanor’s piercing gaze with all the dignity she had rebuilt over three years of surviving hell.
“Six weeks,” Sophia said clearly. “The baby’s heart is beating. And I will not allow Julian Cross, Liam Prescott, or you to make my child feel unwelcome in this world.”
Eleanor’s hand wavered slightly as she reached for her silver cane. For a brief second, the iron matriarch looked human—stunned, calculating, and overwhelmed.
“A child,” Eleanor murmured. “A Vale heir.”
“My heir,” Dominic emphasized. “Which means Sophia’s word carries my authority. If any member of this family questions her place or leaks her movements again, I won’t just exile them from the trust, Mother. I will bury them.”
Eleanor composed herself with terrifying speed, smoothing her skirt. She looked at Sophia, her expression an intricate blend of wariness and grudging evaluation.
“Julian Cross didn’t bail Prescott out just to embarrass you, Dominic,” Eleanor said quietly, her tone changing completely. “Cross purchased Prescott’s debt from an Indian casino outside Seattle. He owns him. Prescott isn’t just looking for his ex-fiancée. He is a guided missile aimed straight at your heart.”
Sophia’s stomach plummeted. “Liam was in debt?”
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“Three million dollars,” Eleanor stated coldly. “And Julian Cross told him his debt is forgiven the moment Sophia Mercer returns to Seattle—in a pine box.”
***