Chapter 2 - The Secret Behind the Vale Name
I left Adrian’s house just after sunrise.
He offered to have a driver take me home.
I refused.
I needed distance from the Vale family, not another member of it sitting silently beside me in a black sedan.
By nine in the morning, I was back in my apartment.
By ten, my phone had become unusable.
News sites had picked up the story.
Wedding canceled.
Heiress-to-be walks away.
Chicago businessman’s son accused of infidelity.
Anonymous photos showed me leaving the Hawthorne Hotel.
Some people called me brave.
Others called me dramatic.
A few comments suggested I had known all along and was only canceling because I wanted publicity.
It was amazing how quickly strangers could turn your worst night into entertainment.
Then the phone rang.
Sophie.
I watched her name flash for nearly a minute before answering.
“Eve.”
I said nothing.
“I know you hate me.”
“You’re right.”
She began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
“Then say something useful.”
Silence.
Finally she whispered, “There were others.”
My stomach turned.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“At least three that I know about.”
I closed my eyes.
“And you?”
“I was the longest.”
“Was?”
“It’s over.”
“Because he chose me?”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“Because I realized he never loved me the way I thought he did.”
That sentence should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
“What did he love?”
“Being forgiven.”
I said nothing.
Sophie continued.
“Dylan was terrified you would leave him. Not because he was faithful. Because you were the one person he couldn’t control.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Control?”
“He knows your habits. Your routines. Your weaknesses. He knows exactly what to say when you’re angry.”
I looked around my apartment.
Suddenly, fourteen years of memories felt different.
A handwritten note from Dylan on our first anniversary.
Flowers after every fight.
The necklace he bought when my mother died.
The way he always seemed to know what I needed before I asked.
Had those things been love?
Or had he simply studied me?
Before I could ask more, Sophie said, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I saw paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“Your mother’s.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“My mother died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“What does she have to do with Dylan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why mention her?”
“Because Adrian Vale had her name on a file.”
I stood.
“What?”
“I saw it in Dylan’s office.”
“What kind of file?”
“I don’t know. I only saw the name.”
“Why was Dylan keeping a file on my mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know more than you’re telling me.”
“I swear I don’t.”
“Where is Dylan now?”
“He went to the Vale headquarters.”
“Why?”
“I think his father called him.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
Ten minutes later, someone knocked on my door.
I almost ignored it.
Then I heard a familiar voice.
“Eve, it’s me.”
Dylan.
I opened the door with the chain still latched.
He looked exhausted.
“I’m not letting you in.”
“I just want to talk.”
“You had fourteen years to talk.”
“I found something.”
I froze.
“What?”
“About your mother.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
“How do you know about my mother?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Please, Eve. Just give me five minutes.”
“No.”
“I know you think my father is helping you.”
“I don’t think anything about your father.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re the one who taught me to hate him.”
Dylan flinched.
“I was a kid.”
“You were twenty-two when we started dating.”
“I thought he abandoned us.”
“Didn’t he?”
“He did.”
Dylan looked down.
“Or at least I thought he did.”
I opened the door another inch.
“What does that mean?”
“He didn’t leave because he wanted to.”
I stared at him.
“Then why?”
“Because of your mother.”
The hallway disappeared.
“What?”
Dylan looked like he regretted coming.
“Come with me.”
“No.”
“He has records.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“About my mother?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve seen them?”
“I saw a box last night.”
“What was in it?”
“Old legal files. Bank transfers. Letters.”
“Did my mother know your father?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
I felt dizzy.
“You said they barely knew each other.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked me to.”
I stared at him.
“My mother asked you to lie?”
“Not directly. She asked my father.”
“Then why were you involved?”
“Because I was seventeen.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Seventeen.
The same age I was when Dylan and I met.
“Eve,” he said, “your mother knew my father long before we did.”
I shut the door.
He pounded on it.
“Please!”
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
My mother had always been a quiet woman.
She worked two jobs.
She saved every dollar.
She never dated after my father left.
And she had one rule I never understood.
“Stay away from wealthy men,” she used to tell me.
I had thought she meant arrogant men.
Maybe she had meant the Vale family.
That afternoon, I received a message from Adrian.
We need to talk. Not about Dylan.
I almost deleted it.
Instead, I replied.
Where?
His answer arrived immediately.
My office. Four o’clock. Bring nothing.
I nearly smiled.
Even his invitations sounded like instructions.
At four, I entered the headquarters of Vale Rowan Holdings.
The lobby was enormous, all glass and polished stone.
Employees moved quietly.
Security watched every entrance.
A giant bronze sculpture of a compass stood in the middle of the atrium.
A receptionist looked up.
“Ms. Hart?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Vale is expecting you.”
The elevator took me to the forty-second floor.
Adrian was standing behind a long conference table.
No assistants.
No lawyers.
Just him.
And a stack of files.
“You said bring nothing.”
“I did.”
“I brought my questions.”
“You should.”
He motioned toward the chair.
I remained standing.
“Tell me about my mother.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your mother, Claire Hart, worked for my father briefly.”
“Doing what?”
“Accounting.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She was very good.”
“My mother was a bookkeeper.”
“She was more than that.”
“What did she discover?”
Adrian leaned back.
“You already know there was something wrong with my company.”
“I know nothing.”
“That is why you are in danger.”
He pushed a file across the table.
On the cover was my mother’s name.
Claire Hart.
My hands trembled.
I opened it.
Bank statements.
Invoices.
Copies of contracts.
At the bottom was a photograph.
My mother standing beside Adrian.
They were younger.
Very young.
My mother looked directly at the camera.
Adrian looked at her.
Not like an employer.
Not like a friend.
Something about the photograph made my chest ache.
“Were you in love with her?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“Yes.”
The room became silent.
“My mother never mentioned you.”
“She protected you.”
“From what?”
“From the truth.”
I turned the photograph over.
On the back, written in my mother’s handwriting, were six words.
If he comes back, trust his son.
My eyes filled with tears.
“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“Then who is ‘his son’?”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“My father.”
I looked up.
“You?”
“No.”
He said the next words quietly.
“Your father.”
I stopped breathing.
“My father died before I was born.”
May you like
Adrian nodded.
“That is what your mother wanted you to believe.”
