VOWS OF DECEPTIONS

Rain hammered London like it wanted to wash the city clean. The Vaughn mansion’s driveway shimmered under the storm, its marble tiles reflecting blue flashes of lightning.

Christopher Ford’s hands rested on the steering wheel, calm, deliberate. The silver Bentley purred, idling outside the grand ballroom entrance where the last of the guests were leaving in jeweled laughter.

In the back seat, Ariella Vaughn was fury wrapped in silk. Her gown glittered, her expression didn’t. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she snapped, her voice sharper than the storm outside.

Christopher didn’t turn. “You asked me to wait outside the gala, ma’am. I did.”

“You did,” she bit out. “Except you blocked the service entrance instead of the main one. I walked past the caterers, for God’s sake! Photographers caught it, me, the Vaughn heiress, paraded out like a maid!”

He spoke evenly. “The main entrance was cordoned off by the police for a brief moment. There was no safe lane to pull into.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” she fired back. “Your job is to drive. Not… think.”

He almost smiled, almost. “Thinking is what keeps people alive in this weather, Miss Vaughn.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

“Just careful,” he said quietly.

“Careful doesn’t fix humiliation, Ford.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Do you even care what people say about you?”

He met her gaze briefly. “No, ma’am.”

“Everyone laughs at you. They call you the mute chauffeur. You never talk, never react, never defend yourself.”

“Maybe I don’t see the point.”

“The point,” she hissed, “is survival. You don’t last in my world by staying silent.”

He turned the wheel, guiding the car into the private driveway. “Your world isn’t mine.”

A beat of silence. Then, Her voice softened, curious in spite of herself. “Then why stay in it?”

The question hung between them like fog. Christopher’s eyes flicked to the storm. “Because some things are easier to fix when you’re close enough to see how they break.”

Her brow furrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

The car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion. Ariella exhaled sharply, frustration cutting through her composure.

“You know what your problem is, Ford? You act like you’re invisible. Like you’re above humiliation. But one day, someone’s going to remind you exactly where you stand.”

He looked at her then, not through the mirror this time, but fully. Calm, unflinching. “I already know where I stand,” he said softly. “The question is whether anyone else does.”

Her pulse skipped before she caught herself. “You’re out of line.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “Still true.”

She opened the door, stepping into the downpour, heels striking marble like a verdict. “Fix that attitude,” she said over her shoulder. “Before it gets you fired.”

Christopher stepped out, umbrella in hand, offering it to her. She hesitated, pride warring with etiquette, then took it, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a shock neither acknowledged.

She walked off beneath the umbrella, a dark silhouette swallowed by light. He stood by the car, rain soaking his jacket, eyes shadowed under the mansion’s glow.

For a long moment, he looked like exactly what he appeared to be, a driver caught in the storm of someone else’s life.

Then the gate intercom crackled. “Mr. Ford?” the guard’s voice came through, uncertain. “You’ve got someone waiting at the outer gate.”

He frowned. “Who?”

The line went static before the guard replied. “Said she’s from… Ford Holdings.”

His breath stilled. That name had been buried six years ago. The storm seemed to pause, waiting.

He turned toward the gates, seeing through sheets of rain a figure, tall, slender, unmoving under a black umbrella. She was watching him.

Ariella turned from the porch, her eyes catching his. “Something wrong?”

Christopher straightened, mask slipping back into place. “Nothing, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Just… someone from my past.”

The wind howled through the drive as he closed the car door, his reflection caught in the Bentley’s chrome, the ghost of a man who wasn’t supposed to exist.

He walked into the rain. Back toward the secret that refused to stay buried.