Chapter 3 - The Threat of the Whitmores
Within forty-eight hours of the marriage license being filed, the news reached the Upper East Side.
Julian Whitmore sat in his leather chair, his face pale as he stared at the document on his tablet. Vanessa stood by the window, her fingers trembling as she held a glass of white wine.
"This is a mistake," Vanessa hissed. "How could she marry Roman DeLuca? He is a criminal! A beast! The man is under federal investigation!"
"She did it for protection," Julian said, his voice tight. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of irritation. He had expected Claire to crawl back to her family’s small apartment in Ohio, or to beg him for a monthly allowance. Instead, she had married into one of the wealthiest—and most dangerous—families in the country. "She’s trying to scare us."
"We need to get her back," Vanessa said, turning to him. "If the DeLuca lawyers start looking into her share of the catering business, or if she tells them about the offshore accounts we routed through the subsidiary, we are ruined, Julian. Your mother’s reputation, your senate run... everything."
Julian stood, straightening his Brioni suit. "I will handle Claire. She is soft. She has always been soft. All I have to do is remind her of what she lost."
The Gates of BlackwoodAt Blackwood Manor, the security gates remained closed.
Claire stood in the garden, watching the triplets play tag on the damp lawn. It was the first time she had seen them run. Isabella’s laughter was high and sweet, while Leo and Mateo chased her with a fierce, competitive energy.
A guard approached Claire, his head lowered respectfully. "Mrs. DeLuca. There is a vehicle at the gate. A Mr. Julian Whitmore is demanding to see you."
Claire’s breath caught. The old, familiar fear—the feeling of being small, inadequate, and dismissed—threatened to rise.
"Tell him—" she began.
"Tell him to enter," a voice interrupted from behind her.
Roman stepped onto the stone patio. He wore a dark, tailored charcoal suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. His eyes were fixed on the driveway.
"You do not hide from your past in this house, Claire," Roman said, his voice low and steady. "You stand and watch it burn."
A silver Mercedes sedan drove up the circular driveway, stopping with a sharp hiss of tires. Julian stepped out, looking pristine, expensive, and entirely artificial against the rugged stone of Blackwood Manor.
He stopped when he saw Roman standing beside Claire. His confident smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered his composure.
"Claire," Julian said, his tone carrying the familiar, patronizing warmth he used when he wanted to manipulate her. "You’ve caused quite a stir. I think we need to talk. Privately. This... little rebellion of yours has gone far enough."
Claire took a step forward, but Roman’s hand found the small of her back. The warmth of his palm through her linen shirt was an anchor.
"My wife does not have private conversations with her ex-husband," Roman said, his voice quiet but carrying a weight that made the guards at the perimeter adjust their weapons.
"Your wife?" Julian scoffed, though his eyes darted nervously to the armed men. "Claire, be reasonable. You don't belong here. These people... they are not like us. You are a catering cook. You belong in a kitchen, not in a mafia fortress. Come home. We can renegotiate the settlement. I can give you a million dollars. Two million."
Claire looked at Julian. For four years, she had believed his words. She had believed that she was too big, too loud, too ordinary for his perfect world.
May you like
But looking at him now, standing beside Roman DeLuca, she realized Julian was incredibly small.
"I am home, Julian," Claire said, her voice steady and clear. "And you cannot afford me."
