Chapter 10
He didn't wait for her to answer. He reached into his tailored jacket and retrieved a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He dialed a single digit and pressed the phone to his ear. The small artistic tattoo above his collar shifted seamlessly with the movement.
"Vincent," Miles said into the receiver, his eyes locked on his former fiancée. "Will you come to the reception hall and escort Miss Shaw to the holding cells beneath the east wing immediately?"
He lowered the phone and looked at the broken socialite one last time.
"Have you finally realized the price of your ambition, Brielle?" Miles asked softly, as the heavy mahogany doors of the hall burst open.
Vincent and another massive security guard in dark suits entered the room. They marched forward without a word, hauling Brielle roughly to her feet. She shrieked, thrashing wildly against their iron grip, but they were unyielding.
"You will regret this, Miles!" she screamed as they dragged her backward toward the doors. "You will all burn for this!"
"Will you convey my deepest regards to your father when I send him the pieces of his syndicate?" Miles asked quietly, watching the doors slam shut.
The profound, ringing silence of the grand reception settled heavily over the remaining figures. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the evergreen garlands and the towering Christmas tree. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt entirely different—it was a sanctuary of protection.
Miles stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Brielle’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his home had been surgically removed. Now, he had to secure his son and the woman who had suffered to protect their memory.
He turned his body, pivoting seamlessly on the polished marble floors, and focused his entire attention back on Audrey and Noah.
Miles crouched down, his tailored suit shifting smoothly. He held the two halves of the torn photograph together perfectly, keeping his large, tattooed hands steady. He presented the restored image directly at Noah’s eye level.
Noah looked at the photograph, his round rosy cheeks lifting into a soft, relieved smile. The three-year-old boy gently reached out and touched the portrait of his mother with his tiny fingers.
Audrey remained standing close beside Noah. She did not retreat. Her beautiful features were pale, her eyes still puffy and red from her earlier tears, and her disheveled hair fell loosely around her face. She rested her trembling hand lightly, reassuringly, on Noah’s shoulder, grounding the boy in the safety of the moment.
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Miles looked up at Audrey, his dark, perceptive eyes burning with an unyielding, protective fire. He saw the gentle loyalty she had displayed, a rare, precious commodity in his dark, violent world. She had defied a monster to save a memory that was not even her own.
Miles stood back up, maintaining his protective position between the exit and his family. He raised a cold, unwavering gaze toward the heavy mahogany doors, waiting for the inevitable retaliation. The engagement was shattered, the war was certain, but as he stood beside the maid and his son, Miles Ashford had never felt his empire was more secure. Hold the final silence.
