Chapter 4 - The Preparation
The next morning arrived with a crisp, grey sky over Chicago.
At 8:00 AM, Dr. Thorne arrived personally at our gates, holding a sealed, confidential envelope. He walked into Alejandro’s study where I was sitting, sipping black coffee, having not slept a single minute all night.
“It’s official,” Dr. Thorne said, handing me the paper. “The DNA match between you and Elizabeth Vance is ninety-nine point nine percent conclusive. She is your maternal aunt.”
I clutched the paper to my chest, a heavy tear spilling over my lash line. Seeing it printed on official laboratory letterhead made the nightmare undeniably real. She was my blood. The lost sister of my late mother.
“How is she doing this morning?” Dr. Thorne asked quietly.
“Mrs. Gable gave her a warm bath, styled her hair, and fed her a full breakfast,” I said, standing up. “Her memory is coming back in surges. Small things first—songs she used to listen to, the smell of lavender, the layout of her old bedroom at the estate. But the trauma around Richard is still a jagged wall.”
“That’s normal,” Thorne warned. “Severe emotional triggers can either cause a complete psychological shutdown or shatter the amnesia entirely. If you expose her to Richard tonight, you must be prepared for a volatile reaction.”
“I’ll protect her,” I swore. “Nothing touches her again.”
By 2:00 PM, a team of high-end stylists, makeup artists, and dressmakers—all personally hired by Alejandro under strict non-disclosure agreements—arrived at our home.
Elizabeth sat quietly in the center of the dressing room, bewildered by the attention, but trusting me completely. Whenever she felt overwhelmed by the brushes, the hair dryers, or the measurement tapes, she would reach out and touch my hand, and I would squeeze it, whispering, “I’m right here, Aunt Elizabeth. I’m right here.”
They washed her hair with scented oils, restoring its natural luster, styling the silver waves into an elegant, timeless updo. They applied subtle, radiant makeup that disguised the decades of harsh weather on her skin, bringing out the striking, emerald brightness of her eyes.
Finally, we stepped into the wardrobe room.
Alejandro had ordered a custom dress delivered from a private atelier in New York: a heavy, deep emerald green velvet gown with long sleeves, a high collar, and an exquisite silver waist brooch.
When Elizabeth stepped out of the fitting room wearing the dress, Mrs. Gable let out a soft gasp, bringing her apron to her mouth.
The homeless woman who had been digging through trash cans near the bus station twenty-four hours ago was completely gone. Standing before us was the undeniable, regal ghost of Elizabeth Vance—the true matriarch of Vance Global Holdings.
I walked over to her, carrying a velvet box. I opened it to reveal a stunning vintage necklace of solid platinum and cut emeralds—a piece that had belonged to my mother, which Alejandro had managed to buy back at an estate auction years ago.
I carefully fastened the emeralds around her neck, letting them rest right above her collarbone, leaving her crescent birthmark faintly visible near the neckline.
Elizabeth looked at herself in the floor-length gilded mirror. She raised her frail fingers, touching her cheek, then tracing the emeralds around her neck.
“Catherine...” Elizabeth whispered, her voice clear and resonance returning to her tone. “Catherine had a necklace just like this...”
“It was my mother’s,” I said, stepping into the mirror’s frame beside her, resting my hands on her shoulders. “And tonight, Aunt Elizabeth, you are going to take back everything he stole from her, from you, and from me.”
Elizabeth turned to face me. Her green eyes were no longer hollow or confused. A deep, ancient flame of dignity flared within her pupils.
“He thought I died in the dark, sparrow,” Elizabeth said, her voice steadying into a cultured, aristocratic cadence that had been buried under trauma for twenty years. “He thought he erased me.”
“Show him you are alive,” I said softly.
Downstairs, the front door opened, and Alejandro stepped into the foyer wearing a crisp black tuxedo. He looked up the grand staircase as Elizabeth and I began our descent.
Alejandro stopped in his tracks, staring at the woman walking beside me. The man who rarely lost his composure looked genuinely stunned.
“My God,” Alejandro breathed softly. “You look magnificent, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth offered him a soft, regal nod. “Thank you, Alejandro. For the soup... and for my life.”
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Alejandro held out his arm to her, then held out his other arm to me.
“Our limousine is waiting,” Alejandro said, his jaw setting into a hard line of determination. “The dragon is waiting in his lair. Let’s go collect the debt.”
