Chapter 2 - Cracks in the Porcelain
Claire did not enter the nursery. Instead, the rustle of emerald silk signaled her retreat, each hollow tap of her heels against the polished marble hallway sounding like a gavel falling on Dominic’s carefully constructed empire.
Dominic didn't turn around. His entire existence had narrowed to the gentle rise and fall of Elena’s chest.
""Claire shouldn't be here,"" Elena said quietly, her tone lacking any venom. That was always Elena’s gift—and her curse. She possessed an unnerving grace that stripped away pretense, forcing everyone in her orbit to face their barest reflections.
""I didn't invite her. My security brought her up because her father insisted on going over the merger details before tomorrow's gala,"" Dominic muttered, loosening his black silk tie with a jerky, uncoordinated tug. His chest heaved as though he had run a marathon. ""Elena... where have you been living? Who took care of you? If the Vance syndicate found out—""
""They wouldn't look for me in a modest apartment in Pilsen, Dominic. Not when you paid three private intelligence firms millions to search coastal villas in Europe,"" she replied with a faint, sad smile. ""You always look for wealth, power, or grand escapes. You forget that regular people simply wake up, go to work, and buy groceries.""
Dominic stepped closer, his knuckles grazing the polished maple rail of the empty crib. A tiny mobile with plush stars hung motionless above it. He had spent his life accumulating steel, concrete, and leverage. Seeing something this fragile, made for something so defenseless, rattled him to his marrow.
""You should have told me,"" he insisted, his voice rising, struggling to maintain the dominant cadence that was his only armor. ""I could have protected you. You had no right to make this decision alone.""
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""Protected me?"" Elena stepped forward, closing the distance until barely two feet separated them. Her gaze locked with his, unflinching. ""With what, Dominic? With bodyguards who carry suppressed sidearms? With panic rooms? With a life where our child would grow up learning which cars are armored and which strangers might be carrying a vendetta? You don't protect people, Dominic. You enclose them in golden vaults and mistake the lock for safety.""
Dominic flinched. No bullet from his past had ever struck deeper. Before he could speak, the elevator chime echoed from the penthouse foyer, followed by the muffled, agitated voice of Arthur Vance—Claire’s father. The fragile sanctuary of the nursery was already under siege.
