Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
The morning sun broke over the skyline of the city, casting long shadows across the floor of the VIP suite at St. Jude’s Hospital.
Della woke up to the gentle smell of fresh roses and warm vanilla. Opening her eyes, she found the room transformed. The sterile, white hospital environment had been swept away; vases of fresh white roses sat on the marble window sills, and a plush mahogany dining tray lay beside her bed, loaded with fresh fruits, warm pastries, and crystal glasses of organic juices.
Sitting quietly in the armchair near the window, reading a leather-bound folder, was Royce. He had changed into a dark charcoal three-piece suit, looking immaculate, relaxed, and impossibly powerful.
"Good morning," he said, setting the folder down the moment he noticed her moving.
Della rubbed her eyes, feeling much stronger than she had the night before, though her body still felt sore. "You stayed here all night?"
"I had work to do," Royce replied smoothly, walking toward the bed. "And I preferred to do it where I could ensure you were breathing."
Della’s face flushed slightly at his directness. She lowered her head, nervously playing with the silk edge of the hospital blanket. "Royce... about what you said last night. You don't owe me anything. That happened nine years ago. I was just doing what anyone would have done."
"Anyone else would have locked their door and called the police, or let them take me," Royce corrected her, his tone leaving no room for debate. "You put your life on the line for a stranger. That debt does not expire, Della. It accumulates interest."
He pulled up the chair and sat beside her, pouring a glass of fresh orange juice and handing it to her. "The doctor checked your morning blood panel. The hematoma is stabilizing, but he insists on strict bed rest for at least another two weeks. You are not going back to your apartment."
Della almost choked on her juice. "My apartment? But I have to pay rent! My landlord, Mr. Henderson, he’ll throw my things on the street if I’m late by three days!"
"Mr. Henderson no longer owns that building," Royce said plainly.
Della stared at him. "What?"
"I bought the building three hours ago," Royce said, taking a quiet sip of his black coffee. "And then I had my crew pack every single one of your personal belongings into sterile containers. They are currently being moved to my private residence in the Hills."
Della’s heart hammered against her ribs. "Royce, no! You can't just... buy my apartment building and move my things! I can't live with you! I don't even know you—not really! You're a... you're a powerful man, and I'm just a waitress!"
"You were a waitress," Royce corrected her gently, though his eyes remained firm. "Now you are my guest. My home is the safest place in this city, Della. You have people looking to hurt you."
Della paused, her panic halting mid-stride. "People looking to hurt me? Who? Cordelia Vance?"
"Cordelia Vance is currently sitting in a holding cell facing multiple felony charges," Royce informed her, his voice cold. "Her bail was denied this morning. But her family is desperate. Harlan Vance lost his company two hours ago after his primary investors backed out. Desperate people do foolish things. If they realize who you are to me, they will try to use you to force my hand."
Della shrank back into her pillows, the reality of the situation washing over her like cold water. She wasn't just a victim of a rich woman’s temper anymore; she was caught in the dangerous crossfire of powerful, lethal men.
"I never wanted any of this," she whispered, her hands dropping to her belly again. "I just wanted to work, save enough money for the baby’s crib and medical bills, and live quietly."
Royce’s expression softened. He reached out, his long fingers gently cupping her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. "I know. And you will have your quiet life, Della. I swear it to you. But until I clear the board of every threat, you stay under my protection. Do you trust me?"
Della looked deep into his dark gray eyes. There was danger in them, yes—a deep, ancient violence that made lesser men tremble—but when he looked at her, there was only warmth, reverence, and absolute devotion.
"I trust you," she whispered softly.
"Good," Royce said, releasing her chin. "Now eat your breakfast. We have another matter to settle today."
"What matter?"
Royce stood up, buttoning his jacket. "The matter of the man who left you to face this alone."
Della went pale. "Julian?"
"Julian Thorne," Royce pronounced the name with sheer disdain. "My men tracked him down last night. He seems to be under the impression that he can abandon his responsibilities, steal your hard-earned savings, and live in luxury while you bleed on marble floors."
"Royce, please," Della pleaded, her voice trembling. "Julian is... he’s dangerous. He’s mean. When he left, he told me that if I ever tried to go to the police about the money he took from my account, he’d make sure I never saw the baby. He has friends in bad places."
Royce let out a short, dark laugh that sent a shiver down Della’s spine.
"Della," Royce said smoothly, walking toward the door, "his friends in bad places report to me. Eat your breakfast. I will be back shortly."
An hour later, in the soundproofed sub-basement beneath the Ashworth Grand Hotel, Julian Thorne was tied securely to a heavy steel chair.
Julian was a handsome man in his late twenties, with slicked-back hair and expensive designer clothes, but right now, his nose was bleeding, his designer shirt was torn, and his eyes were wide with blind terror. Two massive men in tactical suits stood behind him, their arms crossed.
The heavy iron door swung open, and Royce walked in, accompanied by Marcus.
"Who the hell are you?!" Julian screamed, his voice echoing against the damp concrete walls. "Do you know who I am? I work for the Delacroix Group! My boss has connections! You can't kidnap me!"
Royce didn't answer. He walked slowly to a wooden table, picked up a pair of pristine leather driving gloves, and pulled them onto his hands, finger by finger.
"Julian Thorne," Royce said quietly, his voice dangerously smooth. "Age twenty-eight. Former accountant. Currently unemployed, living off the credit cards of a wealthy fifty-year-old divorcee."
Julian’s breath caught in his throat. "How... how do you know that?"
Royce walked over and stood right in front of Julian, towering over him like an omen of death. "Three months ago, you emptied a bank account belonging to Della Marsh. Total amount: thirty-two thousand four hundred dollars. Money she saved over four years of double shifts."
Julian’s face drained of color. "Della? This is about Della? That weak, pathetic little bitch sent you?"
SMACK.
The backhand was so fast and heavy that Julian’s chair tilted back on two legs before slamming down against the concrete. Julian coughed violently, spitting blood onto his designer pants, his left cheek instantly swelling to a deep purple.
Royce stood over him, his face devoid of emotion, rubbing his leather-clad knuckles.
"Speak her name like that again," Royce whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from Julian’s, "and I will remove your tongue with a dull pair of shears."
Julian sobbed, nodding frantically. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll give the money back! I swear! I’ll pay it back!"
"You will give back far more than thirty-two thousand," Royce said, stepping back and accepting a fountain pen and a stack of legal documents from Marcus. "You will sign over every asset, every account, and every property in your name to Della Marsh. You will sign a legal admission of grand larceny and fraud."
"I... I can't do that! That's everything I have!" Julian cried out.
Royce took out a small black handgun from his shoulder holster, pulled the slide back with a sharp clack, and rested the cold steel barrel directly against Julian’s forehead.
"You have ten seconds to sign," Royce said, his pulse utterly steady. "If you sign, you live, but you leave this city by midnight tonight and never return. If you ever come within fifty miles of Della or her child, I won't kill you quickly. I will dismantle you piece by piece."
Julian trembled so violently he could barely hold the pen Marcus thrust into his hands. With tears streaming down his face, he scribbled his signature across every designated line on the legal documents, signing away his fortune, his freedom, and his right to ever step foot in the city again.
Once the final signature was complete, Marcus pulled the papers away and verified them. "It's done, boss."
Royce holstered his weapon, adjusting his cuffs. "Put him on a cargo ship to South America. Make sure he works off his passage."
"No! Please! No!" Julian shrieked as the two large guards unbuckled him from the chair and dragged him kicking toward the back exit.
Royce turned his back on the pathetic screams, walking out of the basement into the private elevator. As the elevator ascended toward the hotel penthouse, Marcus stood beside him.
"The Vance family has reached out through their attorneys," Marcus noted. "Old man Vance is offering to hand over thirty percent of their remaining real estate portfolio if you drop the criminal charges against Cordelia."
"Tell them no," Royce replied coldly. "Cordelia Vance will stand trial. I want her to serve the maximum sentence. And instruct our media outlets to broadcast the security footage of her shoving Della across every major news network at six o'clock tonight."
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"It will ruin their reputation completely," Marcus pointed out with a subtle smirk. "The Vance family name will be toxic by tomorrow morning."
"Good," Royce said as the elevator doors opened to his penthouse suite. "They thought money made them untouchable. I am going to show them what true power looks like."
