Page 13 of Vows of Silence

Luca chuckled in my ear. “If you really wanted to know, you would have gone looking. Maybe now you will.”

“Hmm. Maybe. And whilst we’re on the topic, answer me this—why do you have such heavy surveillance on me, Luca?”

“Why are you asking now?”

I sighed heavily. “Because threads of my life are beginning to unravel, and I am trying to see where you fit into it all!”

“So let’s work it out together.”

I felt like screaming in frustration. “Or you could just tell me!”

“Have I ever used any of my knowledge to harm you, Belle?” he asked, making my stomach clench with the use of my nickname.

No one had called me that in so long.

Marco used to call me it all the time, but ever since my engagement, everyone had shifted to “Isabelle” because they said it made me sound more grown up. Which is what Adrien had demanded.

“No,” I agreed reluctantly—only because I knew if I agreed with him, it would only cement the idea that he didn’t need to tell me outright.

“Since that very first night, all I have ever wanted is for you to be safe,” he said softly, taking away the last bit of fight from my body.

It was true.

His first text had been to ask why I was crying.

It was the night of my eighteenth birthday, and things had been going so well. It was before Adrien, before arranged marriages and gilded cages. It was the last night of my freedom—though I hadn’t known it at the time.

The party was perfect, as was everything my mother planned. Other than Silas skulking around, making me nervous, things could not have been better.

And then disaster struck.

My uncle was gunned down, murdered in the middle of the dance floor with a bullet that hit its target precisely.

I had been dancing with him one minute, and the next minute blood was oozing from the very centre of his forehead.

I’d screamed, called for my father, frantically searched the room, only for my eyes to land on that terrifying silver mask in the shadows.

Silas didn’t rush to help. He didn’t move at all. He remained exactly where he was, watching my every move.

When everyone else was panicking and sending out demands, their focus on the dead man in my arms, his focus had been on me. His head had tilted to the side, as though my reaction had surprised him, and he hadn’t so much as flicked a single glance towards my uncle.

I’d been ordered to my room, locked behind the thick wooden doors, the emergency shutters placed over the windows—as was our lockdown procedure—whilst the house was evacuated and the murder was investigated.

It had never occurred to me to ask why a real estate manager needed a lockdown procedure. I just assumed we were rich—filthy, stinking rich—and it was better to be safe than sorry.

No one had stopped by to ask if I was okay. No one had offered comfort, considering my uncle had been gunned down in my arms.

Nothing, until that one text.

Unknown:Why are you crying?

Of course I hadn’t responded straight away. In fact, I hadn’t responded at all in over a week. But his texts were persistent. And after the funeral, when my feelings were raw, in a moment of weakness, I’d replied and invited him into my life.

I’m still not quite sure how we’d reached this level. Once I’d replied, it seemed as though I’d silently given permission to take charge of everything. He was comforting in a way I hadn’t experienced. He gently gathered up all the broken, damaged parts of my psyche and coaxed me into fixing them.

And that’s what mattered the most. He hadn’t plastered over the wounds himself. He had been my guide, showing me how to fix myself and heal.

He processed my emotions with me, showing endless patience as I tried to work through my grief.