Chapter 3 No.3

The oak doors of the Montgomery estate were heavy, but Gracelyn pushed them open with a strength she didn't know she had.

She walked into the foyer. Her feet were sore, her dress was stained at the hem from the subway floor, but her chin was high.

Her father, Richard, was sitting in the main living room. Arthur Vane was there, too. Vane was a man who looked like he was made of melting wax, sweating in a suit that was too tight.

Elena jumped up from the sofa. "You ungrateful little brat! Do you know how long Mr. Vane has been waiting?"

Richard slammed his hand on the armrest. "Grab her. Lock her in her room until the boat is ready."

Two guards stepped toward Gracelyn.

Vane chuckled, a wet, gurgling sound. "Now, Richard, don't damage the merchandise. I like a little spirit."

Gracelyn felt sick. The walls of the house, the place that had been her prison for twenty-two years, seemed to be closing in. She reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed the cool paper.

She held up a hand, signing the word, "Stop."

The guards hesitated.

Gracelyn pulled out the marriage certificate. She didn't hand it to them. She slammed it onto the coffee table, right on top of Vane's cigar cutter.

"Married," she mouthed, her voice a silent hiss.

Silence. Absolute, ringing silence.

Elena let out a sharp laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. You ran away for an hour. Who did you marry? A homeless man?"

Richard reached for the paper. His face was red with rage, ready to tear it to shreds. Then his eyes focused on the names.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. His hand started to shake.

"Constantine... Durham?" he whispered.

Vane dropped his cigar. It burned a hole in the Persian rug, but no one moved to pick it up. "Durham? You're joking."

"Check the registry," Gracelyn signed, her face stony.

She pulled out her phone and played a recording she had spliced together from news clips of Constantine. My lawyers will handle the rest. The voice was unmistakable. Deep, authoritative, terrifying.

Vane stood up so fast his chair tipped over. "Richard, I... I can't be involved in this. If she belongs to Durham..." He didn't finish the sentence. He practically ran to the door, not daring to look at Gracelyn again.

Elena stared at the paper, her mouth agape. "This is fake. It has to be. How could she-"

Gracelyn met her gaze, and for the first time, she didn't look away. She mouthed the words slowly, precisely. "Touch me... and I tell my husband."

Elena froze. Her hand, raised to strike Gracelyn, hovered in the air. She lowered it slowly, fear replacing the anger in her eyes.

Richard slumped back in his chair. He looked at Gracelyn, and then, slowly, a grotesque smile spread across his face. The fear was gone, replaced by a greedy, calculating gleam.

"Gracelyn," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Why didn't you say so? If you're with Durham... think of what this could do for the company. We could merge the shipping lines. You need to arrange a meeting."

Gracelyn stared at him. The nausea returned, stronger than before. He didn't care that she was safe. He didn't care that she was married. He only saw a new bank account.

She shook her head, signing one sharp, final word. "No."

Gracelyn turned to walk away.

"You think you're free?" Richard's voice turned vicious again. "You think a piece of paper saves you? Your mother is still in the family plot, Gracelyn."

Gracelyn stopped. Her blood ran cold.

"If you don't get Durham to sign that funding agreement," Richard hissed, "I'll have her dug up. I'll have her remains tossed in a pauper's grave in the Bronx. Try me."

Gracelyn turned back. She looked at the man who shared her DNA. She felt something inside her snap. Not a break, but a release.

"You wouldn't," she signed.

"I will," he promised.

Gracelyn didn't argue. She didn't cry. She turned and walked up the stairs to her room. She locked the door. She pushed the heavy vanity dresser in front of it.

She went to her closet and pulled out the old, battered teddy bear on the top shelf. She ripped open its back seam and pulled out a small, high-powered laptop.

Gracelyn sat on the floor, the screen illuminating her face in a ghostly blue light.

They wanted a war? She would give them a massacre.