Chapter 170:
“I thought he was in The Bronx?” Eleanor muttered. “The report said—”
“I moved him,” Aurora said simply as she stepped out. “Did your PI miss that? Perhaps you should demand a refund.”
They took the private elevator to the penthouse.
When the doors opened, the Matriarchs were greeted not by squalor, but by a sprawling living room filled with rare books and the scent of expensive pipe tobacco.
Arthur Vance sat in a leather armchair by the window, polishing a chess piece. He wore a cashmere cardigan and looked every inch the gentleman.
He turned around. His face was weathered, scarred from years of hard labor, but his eyes were sharp.
“So,” Arthur said, his voice gravelly but strong. “The vultures finally circled.”
“Grandpa,” Aurora said, crossing the room to kiss his cheek.
Matriarch Kensington stepped forward. She looked at the old man, expecting a kidnapper. She saw a guardian.
“Mr. Vance,” she said, her voice trembling. “You took her.”
“I saved her,” Arthur corrected. “I found her alone. Abandoned. Targeted.”
The room went dead silent.
“Targeted?” Margaret Vane asked sharply.
“Someone didn’t want her found,” Arthur said, looking directly at Eleanor. “Someone paid to have her disappear.”
Eleanor paled but held her ground. “Don’t look at me! I wasn’t even married into the family then!”
“But someone was,” Arthur said. “I raised her. I taught her. I made sure she survived to come back and take what’s hers.”
Get the latest updates on gⱯlnσν𝒆𝓁s․com
Matriarch Vane walked to Arthur. She bowed her head slightly. A sign of ultimate respect.
“Thank you,” she said. “For keeping our bloodline alive.”
“She’s not just a bloodline,” Arthur said sternly. “She’s a person. And if you hurt her again, I don’t care how many billions you have. I will end you.”
Elias nodded from the doorway. “And I’ll help him.”
The mood in the penthouse was somber. Tea was served in fine china by Aurora’s staff.
“We need to discuss security,” Margaret Vane said. “If she was targeted before, she is a target now.”
“I can protect myself,” Aurora said.
“Not against poison in your tea, girl,” Arthur chided gently.
He coughed. It was a wet, heavy sound.
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief. When he pulled it away, there was a speck of blood.
Aurora was at his side instantly. “Grandpa?”
“It’s nothing. Just old lungs,” he lied, trying to hide the cloth.
Aurora grabbed his wrist, checking his pulse. It was erratic. She looked at his eyes—signs of fatigue she had missed in her own chaos.
“You need a specialist,” Aurora said, her doctor mode engaging. “Pulmonology. Oncology screening.”
.
.
.