Chapter 4: The Roots of the Empire
The guards had vanished, retreating into the hallway. The business meeting was a memory. The men at the table—partners, rivals, fixers—sat in stunned silence, witnessing the one thing they didn't think Silas Vance possessed: a heart.
"They told me you died," Silas whispered into her hair, his voice fierce with a newfound, protective fire. "They told me the fire took everything. I burned the world looking for you, and when I couldn't find you, I... I stopped living."
Elara clung to him, not understanding the wealth or the power, but understanding the warmth. She had been passed from shelter to shelter, from one uncaring hand to another, ever since she’d wandered out of the burning house seven years ago with no memory, only a name she had scribbled on a piece of paper.
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"I kept the jacket," Elara whispered. "It was the only thing I had."
Elena, Silas’s wife, finally rose and walked over, collapsing to her knees beside them. She didn't look at the men in the room; she didn't look at the money. She wrapped her arms around her husband and her daughter, forming a circle of humanity that the room’s cold ambition couldn't touch.
