Chapter 4
Declan didn’t come back on our wedding night.
His assistant called a little after midnight. An emergency at the fund. He’d be staying at the office.
I said, “Fine,” and hung up.
His absence meant nothing to me. I turned over and pressed my face into the pillow.
The next morning, I was on my way to NovaDx when an unknown number called.
“Mrs. Price?” a woman said. “This is Sterling Compliance. There’s an issue involving the Vance statement online. Your signature is required before the pilot sites can proceed.”
Mara’s post had already dragged regulators into the comments. If a hospital partner was nervous, I needed to handle it.
“Send me the address,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, my driver stopped outside a sleek private office tower in downtown Chicago.
A woman in a navy suit met me in the lobby, tablet in hand, her smile polished and empty. She led me to a conference room on the twenty-third floor—glass walls, cold chrome, a skyline view that felt too sharp to be real. A folder waited on the table.
The door locked behind me with a soft, final click.
I turned.
Two men in suits stood inside. Not lawyers. Private security.
My phone was ripped from my hand before I could react.
My pulse slammed into my throat. What the hell is this?
The woman set the folder in front of me. “Please review and sign.”
I opened it.
It wasn’t a regulatory filing. It was an emergency voting proxy and equity authorization—transferring operational control of my NovaDx shares into a healthcare holding trust.
My blood turned to ice. A wave of nausea rolled through me.
“No.”
One of the men stepped closer.
The woman’s expression stayed blank. “If you refuse, the hospital partners will receive a packet suggesting your clinical data was compromised. So will the FDA.”
“You fabricated evidence.”
“Markets rarely wait for proof.”
She was right. NovaDx was still young. One whisper of scandal could freeze everything I’d built.
Still, I pushed the folder back. “No.”
The first blow landed below my ribs—clean, controlled, hidden from any cameras. Pain exploded through my side, white-hot and blinding. I gripped the edge of the chair, biting back a cry, my vision blurring at the edges. Don’t scream. Don’t give them that.
The woman slid the papers closer. “Your signature. Then you can leave.”
I stared down at the document, breathing through the fire in my ribs. Then I saw it—the footer code: SMT-FD-44. Summit Capital. Healthcare division. Declan’s fund.
My stomach lurched violently. Declan.
The second clue came two pages later—a clause written with surgical precision around my prenup protections. Whoever drafted this knew exactly how to skirt the penalties.
He hadn’t touched it himself. He’d sent someone else to do his dirty work.
“Sign,” the woman repeated.
I smiled through the pain, lips trembling. “Tell Declan he needs better lawyers.”
Her expression finally cracked.
The second blow drove the air from my lungs. I doubled over, gasping, tears springing to my eyes against my will. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My vision swam.
When I could breathe again, one man had my wrist pinned to the table. The other forced a pen into my hand and dragged my fingers across the line. My signature came out crooked and shaking—Ella Vance Price—like a bad forgery.
They opened my company portal on my own phone.
Face ID. Authorization screen.
“Authorize it.”
“No.”
The man twisted my wrist. Pain flashed white behind my eyes. A strangled sound tore from my throat before I could stop it. My thumb hit the screen anyway.
The portal chimed. Authorization submitted.
As they gathered their things, one man answered a call near the door.
“Tell Pierce the transfer is done.”
Daniel Pierce. Declan’s executive secretary.
Every detail burned itself into my memory like acid.
The woman glanced back once, cold and detached. “You’ll be released in ten minutes. I suggest you take the rest of the day to recover.”
Then they left me locked in the room.
I sat there, ribs screaming with every breath, wrist already blooming with purple bruises, blood drying at the corner of my mouth. My whole body shook with adrenaline and rage.
Declan Price. I trusted you enough to sign that contract. And you sent thugs to break me on the day after our wedding.
When the door finally opened, I walked out without crying. My legs trembled, cold sweat soaked my back, but I kept my chin high. I would not let them see me break.
In the elevator, I reached into the hidden lining of my blazer and pulled out the emergency phone I’d sewn there weeks ago—right after signing the prenup. Trust was beautiful in theory. Useless in practice.
My fingers shook as I dialed.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Ms. Vance?”
“There’s a problem with the Price partnership,” I said, voice rough and raw with pain.”Activate Plan B.”
My chief of staff went silent for one beat. Then: “Yes, ma’am.”
I ended the call and leaned back against the elevator wall, eyes closed. Every inhale hurt. My ribs felt cracked, my wrist throbbed like fire, and betrayal sat heavy and bitter in my throat.
But beneath the pain, something colder and sharper was growing.
Resolve. Fury. Unstoppable.
Declan Price had violated the agreement first.
Now the penalty clause was mine to trigger.
And I would make sure he felt every single consequence.
