Vincent Cross locked the kitchen door after finding his maid crying on the floor, then asked four words that made her blood run cold: “Who hurt you?” / Chapter 10 / 62

Chapter 10 - The Unbroken House

The morning sun beat down ruthlessly on the grand stone steps of the Cross estate as the heavy oak doors swung open.

State Senator Miller’s campaign manager, a slick man in a charcoal suit holding a manila folder, stopped dead in his tracks at the top of the steps, flanked by two federal investigators in dark windbreakers.

Standing in the doorway, framed by towering marble pillars and backed by an army of silent, armed security guards, was Vincent Cross.

And standing right beside him—her chin held high, her shoulders back, wearing a crisp gray uniform that no longer felt like a badge of servitude, but like the armor of a survivor—was Fay.

“Mr. Cross,” the campaign manager stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating under the sheer, crushing weight of Vincent’s presence. “We have a federal warrant to inspect the eastern shipping manifests for unauthorized municipal zoning modifications—”

“You have a piece of paper signed by a judge who owes my syndicate six favors,” Vincent interrupted, his voice cutting through the morning air with lethal calm. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. “And you have approximately ten seconds to turn around, walk down my driveway, and forget you ever knew where this estate was located.”

“Mr. Cross, you can't intimidate federal officers—” one of the investigators started, stepping forward.

“I’m not intimidating you,” Vincent said, his dark eyes narrowing into twin slits of pure ice. “I’m negotiating. Because if you take one more step onto my property, you won't be leaving with a warrant. You’ll be leaving in an unmarked box, just like the last man who forgot whose house he was standing in.”

The threat hung in the open air, heavy and absolute. The federal investigators exchanged a pale, terrified look. They knew the rumors about the Cross family weren't exaggerations; they were historical records written in blood.

Slowly, the campaign manager took a step back down the stone steps.

“This isn't over,” the man muttered, turning around and hurrying down the driveway toward their waiting sedan.

The federal officers followed closely behind, retreating down the gravel path like whipped dogs.

Vincent watched them go until the sedan's taillights disappeared through the iron gates at the end of the drive. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked down at Fay.

The tension melted from his shoulders, replaced by that quiet, fierce warmth that only she ever got to see.

“Well,” Vincent murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “It appears your first day as my administrative assistant is going to be slightly more complicated than expected.”

Fay smiled back, the last lingering shadows of her past entirely vanishing in the bright morning sunlight. She looked out over the sprawling estate, realizing that the ghost who used to scrub floors in the dark was gone forever.