Dominic ignored him. “Why come here?”
The question hit exactly where she knew it would. She had asked it of herself in the cab while gripping the torn skirt in both fists, while the driver kept checking the mirror and pretending not to stare, while dawn lifted over the freeway and the whole city seemed balanced on the edge of learning what kind of world it really was.
“Because my father won’t believe me,” she said. “Not before the ceremony. Not today. If I ran to him and said I overheard Vincent planning to murder me, he’d think I was panicking. Or trying to escape the wedding. He’d drag me back, apologize to Vincent for my behavior, and by tonight I’d be watched so closely I’d never get another chance.”
Dominic studied her in a way she had never grown used to being studied. Powerful men had assessed her all her life, but always in terms of ornamental value. Pretty enough. Educated enough. Polite enough. Connected enough. A daughter, a promise, a contract with a pulse. Dominic was not looking at her dress or her face or the scandal she represented. He was examining the architecture underneath, as though testing whether the structure could bear weight.
“And you believe I’m your best option.”
“I believe you’re the only person in the state my father can’t bully, buy, or order around within the hour.”
One corner of Dominic’s mouth moved, not quite a smile. “That,” he said, “is at least rational.”
She drew a breath. “If I’m lying, hand me over. If I’m telling the truth, Vincent made a mistake. Either way, you need to know.”
Dominic held her gaze for a beat longer, then looked toward the nearest guard. “Lower the guns.”
Relief hit so hard Emilia’s knees nearly failed. Dominic caught her elbow before she tipped forward. His grip was warm through the silk sleeve of her dress, careful without being gentle, firm without trying to comfort her. The distinction mattered more than she wanted it to.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re coming with me.”
He did not release her as he led her through the entry hall, past carved archways and rooms she had no time to register, into a study lined floor to ceiling with books, maps, framed shipping documents, and old family photographs turned discreetly sideways from sentiment toward strategy. The windows overlooked the Sound, dark water flecked with first light. The room smelled of cedar, leather, and expensive whiskey.
“Sit,” he said.
She sat.
He poured two fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass and set it in front of her, then took the chair across from hers. He did not sit behind the desk. That, too, felt deliberate. A negotiation, not an interrogation. Or perhaps both.
“Now,” he said, “tell me everything. Word for word.”
So she did.
She told him about the bridal suite at St. Catherine’s with its velvet chair and gold mirror and the bouquet she had not wanted and the maid of honor who had left laughing at some nervous joke. She told him about hearing Vincent’s voice in the hall, smooth and confident and already bored by the woman he had not yet married. She repeated his words as exactly as memory allowed. Not the marriage. The funeral. Give it three weeks. Let Anthony think the alliance is secure. The evidence is already in place. By the time he’s screaming for blood, Vale won’t know what hit him.
Dominic stopped her twice for details. Who else spoke. Which hallway. Which side of the door. What tone. What wording around the evidence. When she repeated that Vincent said he had someone inside Dominic’s organization, someone trusted enough to plant a trail, Dominic went very still.
“That,” he said quietly, “is the kind of detail people don’t invent well under pressure.”
“I’m not inventing any of it.”
“I know.”
The words landed with a strange force. She had not realized until that moment how starved she was to be believed the first time she spoke.
Dominic leaned back. “You are staying here until I verify what I can. If your story checks out, you become very valuable. If it doesn’t, you are leverage. Either way, you do not leave this house until I decide what happens next.”
“If my father comes for me?”
“Then he can try.” His voice remained even, but the room seemed to harden around it. “And if Vincent learns where you are before I’m ready, that becomes his problem.”
Emilia wrapped both hands around the glass without drinking. “I need something in return.”
His brows rose slightly. “You’re making terms.”
“I’m negotiating.”
Something almost amused flickered in his expression.
“My mother and my younger sister are still at my father’s estate,” she said. “If Vincent realizes I ran because I heard him, they become pressure points. If my father suspects they know anything, same problem. I need your word that you’ll protect them if this escalates.”
Dominic said nothing for a moment. The silence this time was not judgment. It was measurement.
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