Chapter 5 - The Shadow of Daniel Vance
Ethan stepped forward instantly, his jaw clenched, putting his body between me and the security guards. "Arthur, back down. I haven't authorized this termination. She works under my division."
"With all due respect, Ethan," Arthur replied smoothly, holding up a manila folder, "your father invoked the emergency executive clause twenty minutes ago. As majority shareholder, he overrides you. And frankly, this woman represents an immediate liability to the Ashford name. The press is already descending on the front entrance."
"Let it go, Ethan," I said quietly, reaching onto my uniform collar and unclipping my plastic name tag. It read simply: *Claire — Banquet Staff.*
I tossed it onto the concrete floor between Arthur's polished Italian leather shoes. "I don't want your job. I never did."
I pushed past the guards, ignoring the sting of tears prickling the backs of my eyes. My knee was throbbing viciously now; the sudden exertion after years of restraint had inflamed the deep surgical scar tissue. Every step was a battle against gravity, but I refused to limp in front of them.
Outside, the cool night air hit me like a slap. Rain was beginning to mist over the city streets, slicking the asphalt in a mirror of neon reflections.
Down the block, a black limousine was parked under the shadow of the bridge. As I hurried toward the subway entrance, the rear window of the limousine rolled down smoothly.
A man sat inside, swirling a glass of champagne. His hair was slicked back, silvering at the temples, his face handsome in that sharp, predatory way that only wealth and unearned fame could sculpt.
Daniel Vance.
My former dance partner. The man who had walked away from our mangled car twelve years ago without a scratch while I lay trapped beneath crushed steel. The man who, while I was in an induced coma fighting for my leg, had claimed our joint prize money, signed exclusive sponsorships in New York, and told the press that I was "tragically incapacitated and would want him to carry our torch alone."
"Well, well," Daniel’s voice drifted through the rain, silky and mocking. "The rumors were true. The ghost of Milwaukee has been scrubbing floors in Chicago."
I froze in my tracks, my fingers digging into the thin fabric of my coat.
"What are you doing here, Daniel?" I demanded, my voice trembling with suppressed fury.
"Arthur Vance is my brother, darling," Daniel said with a cruel, thin smile. "When Walter Ashford told him a maid had humiliated his son’s fiancee with world-class footwork, Arthur called me. He sent me the video. I’d recognize that stubborn chin anywhere."
May you like
He opened the car door slightly, looking me up and down with obvious disgust at my worn shoes and frayed coat.
"Look at you," Daniel chuckled softly. "You threw away a dynasty to hide in the dirt. Did you really think you could step back into the light without paying the toll, Claire?"
