Chapter 352

An avalanche of remorse crashed over Vincent. From their hidden union to him dragging Hannah away by force,he had never once given her the dignity of a real title. He was indebted to her. Utterly.

Vincent's voice thundered, sharp with authority, "Let it be known. The woman inside is not some disgraceful secret plaything. She is Hannah Scott-the mistress of this estate, and the sole one I will ever recognize as my wife. Any servant caught slandering her-dismiss them. All of them. No exceptions."

He paused. His next words fell softer, tinged with a concern he had not admitted even to himself. "And fetch the medicine. The finest available, for bruises and aching muscles."

The butler caught his meaning instantly. He did not dare delay. "Yes! Right away!" He scurried away,nearly stumbling in his haste.

Not long after, the ointment was delivered to the room where Hannah was confined. But she ignored it. Her mind worked, calculating and searching for another way out.

Elsewhere, Vincent had undone his tie, preparing to step into the shower, when the device on the counter began to ring. It was Claude on the line.

After days of sending men to shadow Vincent and returning with nothing, this was the first moment Claude had chosen to call him.

Vincent's eyes dimmed as he stared at the glowing screen. Several seconds passed before he answered in silence, only lifting it tohis ear.

"Vincent Jones!" Claude's voice exploded through the line, thick with fury and desperation. "Where the hell have you hidden Hannah?"

Claude had burned through every favor, every lead, chasing Vincent's convoys like a mad hound, only to be outmaneuvered again and again. Hannah's absence gnawed at him, driving him to the brink of madness.

Vincent's mouth twisted into a scornful smile. His reply was cold, detached, as though stating a trivial fact.

"Unable to find her? That just means you're incompetent."

"You!" Claude nearly gagged on his rage. Forcing steadiness into his breath, his tone shifted,now harder and laced with strategy. "I didn't call to quarrel. The day after tomorrow marks Hannah's father's burial. She is his only child. She must be there to send him off." It was his final leverage, the last thread by which he might reclaim Hannah.

"If you retain even a sliver of conscience," Claude pressed, his voice edged with threat, "you will not rob her of bidding farewell to her father. If you dare, she will never forgive you. Not for as long as she lives."

Vincent's hold on the phone tightened. Forgiveness? A hollow laugh stirred in his chest. Hannah had already hated his guts-she resented him with every fiber of her being. From the instant he confined her-perhaps even earlier-that hatred had sunk deep, lodging into her very bones.

On the line, Claude mistook Vincent's silence for wavering. He continued, urgent, "Do you hear me? This is the least a daughter owes her father. You cannot strip that away. Bring her to the funeral."

Vincent's response came at last-low, glacial, each word carrying unyielding finality."Claude Hobbes, you don't get a say in her life. Know your place."

Without waiting for an answer, Vincent severed the call and hurled the device onto the counter. He ripped open the top buttons of his shirt, his collarbone catching the light, while frustration burned beneath his skin.

-..

The night stretched on without rest.

Vincent pushed through the door of Hannah's chamber. She was curled on the mattress, a flimsy cover draped over her form, appearing still asleep.

The ointment box, delivered the evening before, sat untouched upon the side table-still sealed in its wrapping.She had not used it.

Vincent's brow tightened, his steps carrying an edge of roughness. With one swift motion, he tore the blanket from her body.

Hannah jolted awake, her frame immediately rigid. Her eyes opened, locking onto Vincent drawing near, and wariness immediately flared within her gaze. His hands moved to tear at her clothing, intent on stripping them away. He was about to force her again...

Shame flooded her, igniting her instincts to resist. She shot upright, retreating back, her stare sharpened with venomous loathing. Her tone rasped, yet laced with undisguised ridicule. "Mr. Jones, can't even hold it in this early in the morning?"

She carved out a crooked, bitter smile, leaning forward slightly, parting her legs by the smallest margin."Go on. It's not like it's the first time."