CHAPTER 32
THE CURE
POV: IVY
The silence in the penthouse is not peaceful. It is the silence of a held breath, waiting for the inevitable scream.
It has been three days since Silas fired the staff. Three days of empty rooms, echoing footsteps, and meals delivered by a terrified courier who leaves the bags at the private elevator and runs.
The apartment is spotless, sterile, and cold.
I am sitting on the floor of the nursery. It’s not really a nursery yet; it’s just a room in the guest wing that Silas decided was the most secure. There is no crib. There are no toys. Just the medical equipment humming softly in the corner and the white walls that seem to be closing in on me.
I trace the line of the platinum anklet with my finger.
75 BPM.
Calm. Or maybe just numb.
Silas is in his office. He has been there for six hours. He doesn't sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night and the other side of the bed is cold. I find him standing by the window, staring at the city, his hand resting on his gun.
He thinks he is protecting us. But he is haunting us.
I stand up. My legs are stiff.
I am done waiting. I am done being the fragile vessel he is guarding. I am the woman who killed Nikolai Sokolov. I am the woman who walked into a lion’s den and stole fifty million dollars.
I am not going to let a ghost destroy my husband.
I walk out of the room. The hallway is dark. Silas keeps the lights low now, as if darkness offers better cover.
I reach the door to his office. It is closed. Locked, probably.
I try the handle.
It turns.
He didn't lock it. That scares me more than if he had. It means he is distracted. It means he is losing his edge.
I push the door open.
The room is illuminated only by the glow of three monitors. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee and something sharper—fear.
Silas is sitting behind the glass desk. He is staring at the screen, his head in his hands. His hair is messy, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looks wrecked.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Go back to bed, Ivy," he says. His voice is a rasp. "It’s not safe here."
"Not safe in your office?" I ask, stepping inside. "In the fortress you built?"
"Nowhere is safe," he mutters. "They are watching. They are waiting for a mistake."
"Who is watching, Silas?"
I walk around the desk. I stand next to his chair.
He smells of exhaustion.
On the screen, a video is paused. It looks old. Grainy footage of a man in a gray suit speaking to a boardroom.
"Silas," I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He flinches. He spins his chair around, grabbing my wrist before I can make contact. His grip is hard, desperate.
"Don't sneak up on me," he snaps.
"I didn't sneak. I walked through the front door." I look at his eyes. They are bloodshot, wild. "You’re unraveling."
"I am calculating," he corrects, releasing my wrist. "I am assessing threats."
"You are hallucinating threats," I argue gently. "O’Malley is gone. Nikolai is dead. We won."
"We didn't win," he says, turning back to the screen. "We just cleared the board for the real player."
He hits a key. An audio file begins to play.
"...Make him think the threat is everywhere. Make him tighten his grip until he crushes the thing he loves."
The voice is smooth. Cultured. Cruel.
I listen. My blood runs cold.
"Paranoia... Silas Vane has always been crazy... make him become his father."
The audio cuts off.
I stare at the screen. "Who is that?"
"Arthur Pendelton," Silas whispers. "My father’s lawyer. The man who taught my father how to hurt people without leaving bruises."
He looks up at me. His expression is tortured.
"He knows me, Ivy. He knows the rot in my blood. He knows that if I get scared enough, I will turn into the monster I hate."
He gestures to the empty apartment.
"And it’s working. Look at this. I fired everyone. I locked you in. I threw away your coffee. I am doing exactly what he predicted."
He buries his face in his hands again.
"I am becoming him."
The confession hangs in the air, heavy and devastating.
This is the root of it. Not the baby. Not the enemies outside. It’s the enemy inside. He is terrified that his DNA is a loaded gun pointed at our child.
I feel a surge of fierce, protective anger. Not at Silas. At Pendelton. At the ghost of a dead father who is still trying to abuse his son from the grave.
"No," I say.
Silas looks up. "What?"
"You are not him."
I grab the chair and spin it so he is facing me fully. I step between his spread knees.
"Your father hurt you because he liked it," I say, my voice steady. "He hurt you to make you weak. To break you."
I take his hands. They are large, calloused, trembling.
"You are locking me up because you love me. It’s misguided. It’s annoying. It’s driving me crazy. But it is not cruelty, Silas. It is love twisted by fear."
"It feels the same," he whispers. "The cage feels the same."
"Then open the door," I challenge him.
"I can't. If I let you go..."
"I’m not asking you to let me go," I say. "I’m asking you to let me in."
I take his hand and place it on my stomach.
He tries to pull away. "Ivy, don't."
"Feel it," I command.
I press his palm against the warmth of my sweater.
"There is no monster in here," I say. "There is just a baby. Our baby."
"A Vane," he says bitterly. "Bad blood."
"My blood too," I remind him. "And I am not cursed. I am a survivor. This baby will be a survivor."
I lean down until our foreheads touch.
"Pendelton wants you to be a tyrant," I whisper. "He wants you to isolate yourself until you snap. He wants you to destroy us so he can pick up the pieces."
"Yes."
"So don't give him what he wants."
I kiss the corner of his mouth.
"Your father broke things," I say. "You build them. You built an empire. You built this home. You are building a family."
Silas closes his eyes. A shudder runs through his body.
"I’m scared," he admits. The words are barely audible. It is the first time the King of New York has ever admitted fear. "I don't know how to be a father. I only know how to be a warlord."
"Then be a warlord," I say fierce. "Be the warlord who protects his kingdom. Not the one who burns it down."
I pull back to look at him.
"This baby doesn't need a saint, Silas. It needs you. It needs the wolf."
Something shifts in his eyes. The frantic, cornered look fades, replaced by a slow, dawning clarity.
He looks at his hand on my stomach. He spreads his fingers, covering me.
"He’s playing a game," Silas murmurs. "Pendelton. He’s using psychological warfare."
"Yes."
"He thinks I’m weak. He thinks I’m unstable."
Silas sits up straighter. The lethargy vanishes. The predator returns, but this time, it is focused.
"He made a mistake," Silas says.
"What mistake?"
"He assumed I was alone."
He looks at me. He grabs my hips and pulls me closer.
"My father was alone. He destroyed everyone who got close to him. But I..."
He kisses my stomach. A gesture of reverence.
"I have the Queen."
He stands up. He is taller than me, broader, emanating power. But the darkness around him isn't suffocating anymore. It’s armor.
"You’re right," he says. "I am not him."
He walks to the window. He looks out at the city.
"Pendelton is hiding," he says. "He sent that file from a secure server. He thinks he’s invisible."
"Is he?"
Silas turns back to me. A cruel, beautiful smile twists his lips.
"No one is invisible to me. Not anymore."
He walks to the desk and types a command. The screen changes. A map appears.
"I traced the routing of the email," he explains. "It bounced through three proxies. But he got lazy with the timestamp. It matches a login at a private club in the Upper East Side. The Century Club."
"Old money," I say. "Pendelton’s natural habitat."
"Exactly."
Silas walks over to me. He takes my face in his hands.
"I’m going to end this, Ivy. Tonight. I’m going to cut the head off this snake so it stops whispering in my ear."
"We," I correct him.
He hesitates. He looks at my stomach. The old fear flickers for a second.
"Silas," I warn. "Don't put me back in the box."
He takes a deep breath. He nods.
"We," he agrees. "But you stay by the door. You are the extraction team. If things go wrong, you leave. That is the condition."
"Deal."
He reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out a heavy silver object.
It’s not a gun.
It’s a fountain pen. A heavy, antique thing with a sharp nib.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Pendelton loves contracts," Silas says, examining the pen. "He loves signing things. I think it’s time he signed his resignation."
He looks at me.
"Get dressed, Mrs. Vane. We have a meeting."
I smile. The nausea is gone. The fear is gone.
The cure for paranoia isn't safety. It’s action.
"I’ll wear the red dress," I say.
"Wear the black one," Silas says darkly. "We’re going to a funeral."