Chapter 6 - The Unbroken Crown
Three weeks later.
The autumn chill had given way to the first true frost of a New England winter, painting the sprawling grounds of the Rowe estate in Chestnut Hill with a delicate layer of white lace.
Inside the grand foyer of the restored historic mansion—a property Damien had purchased, renovated, and transferred entirely into Maren’s name within forty-eight hours of leaving the hospital—the air smelled of burning cedar, fresh pine, and cinnamon tea.
Maren sat by the massive stone fireplace, wrapped in a plush cashmere throw blanket, her swollen belly resting comfortably as she read a book on interior design.
Footsteps echoed softly across the hardwood floor.
Damien walked in, having just returned from downtown Boston. He shrugged off his heavy wool overcoat, tossed it to Vincent—who was standing near the doorway holding a clipboard with a scowl of profound humiliation—and walked over to the sofa.
“How are you feeling?” Damien asked softly, kneeling beside her chair and pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips.
“I feel like I swallowed a basketball,” Maren smiled, resting her hand against his cheek. “And Dr. Mercer called. She said everything is looking perfect. The baby is healthy and strong.”
Damien let out a long, shuddering breath of relief, resting his forehead against hers. “Good. Because I never want to see you in a hospital room again unless it’s to bring our child into the world.”
“Speaking of the world,” Maren murmured, glancing past Damien toward the doorway where Vincent was currently standing at attention, holding a shopping bag filled with organic kale and almond milk. “How is our new head of domestic security adjusting to civilian life?”
Vincent’s eye twitched slightly from across the room. “The organic kale was three dollars cheaper at the other market, ma’am. I saved the estate a total of twelve cents.”
Maren laughed, a bright, musical sound that filled the grand mansion with genuine warmth. “Good job, Vincent. You can take the rest of the day off.”
As Vincent retreated toward the kitchens, muttering under his breath about maternity cravings, Damien wrapped his arms around Maren’s waist, pulling her flush against him.
“You know,” Damien whispered, his voice deep and rumbling against her ear, “Richard Ashford’s company officially filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy this morning. Ashford Capital is no more. His house was seized by the bank yesterday, and he and his family have officially relocated to a very small, very rented apartment in the industrial district.”
Maren looked into the crackling fire, thinking of the cold marble floor at Briarwell Academy, the matcha latte spilled on the ground, and the girls who had laughed while she cried.
“And Chloe?” Maren asked quietly.
“Withdrawn from Briarwell Academy by mutual agreement of the board,” Damien replied smoothly. “Her friends stopped returning her calls the moment her father’s bankruptcy hit the front page of the Boston Globe. She’s currently spending her weekends trying to figure out how to do her own laundry.”
Maren turned her head, resting her cheek against Damien’s shoulder. She felt no pity for Chloe, nor any lingering fear of the world that had tried to crush her. She had survived the loneliness, the poverty, the betrayal, and the cruelty of people who thought money made them gods.
She looked down at her left hand, where a heavy, flawless diamond ring—one Damien had slipped onto her finger in a quiet ceremony at the hospital chapel—caught the firelight and threw dazzling points of light across the ceiling.
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She wasn't the janitor hiding in a supply closet anymore.
She was Maren Rowe. And the empire she helped build was one that nobody would ever dare touch again.
