Chapter 4 - An Uninvited Knock and an Invitation to the City’s Highest Tower
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting pale stripes across Delaney’s floor.
She woke up with a headache and swollen eyes.
Her wrist still throbbed with a faint purple shadow where Jared had squeezed it.
At precisely 9:00 AM, a firm, rhythmic knock sounded at her door.
Delaney froze.
Had the paparazzi found her building?
Had Daphne sent her PR team?
She crept to the door and looked through the peephole.
Standing in the dingy hallway was the older gentleman with gray hair from the restaurant.
He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece charcoal suit, holding a sleek leather folio.
Delaney unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door open.
“Can I help you?”
The man bowed his head with immaculate courtesy.
“Good morning, Miss Waverly. My name is Arthur Pendelton. I am Mr. Salvatore Vance’s personal executive secretary.”
Delaney blinked.
“Mr. Vance?”
“Yes, ma'am. Mr. Vance requested that I escort you to his office this morning.”
Delaney pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders.
“Why? I already thanked him last night. I don't want to get involved in whatever legal trouble happened with Jared Abbott.”
Arthur gave a slight, understanding smile.
“There will be no legal trouble with Mr. Abbott, Miss Waverly. That situation has already been... addressed.”
A chill ran down Delaney’s spine.
“Then what does Mr. Vance want with me?”
“He wishes to discuss a matter of mutual benefit,” Arthur said. “And, if I may speak frankly, he wants to offer you a way to ensure that your sister and Mr. Abbott never humiliate you again.”
Delaney fell silent.
The memory of the live stream flashed in her mind.
The laughter.
The comments calling her pathetic.
Daphne’s fake tears on camera.
She was tired of being the punchline.
She was tired of hiding in the dark while the people who hurt her collected praise and paychecks.
“Give me twenty minutes to get dressed,” Delaney said.
Arthur stepped back and bowed.
“Take all the time you need, Miss Waverly. The car is waiting.”
Twenty minutes later, Delaney walked out of her building wearing dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and a camel coat.
She kept her head up as Arthur opened the door to the armored Maybach.
They drove through the bustling heart of Manhattan, eventually pulling into the private underground garage of the Vance Tower—a seventy-story glass monolith that dominated the city skyline.
Delaney was guided into a private elevator that required a biometric fingerprint scan.
The elevator shot upward smoothly, the numbers climbing rapidly until it chimed at the 70th floor: The Penthouse Executive Suite.
The doors slid open.
The view took Delaney’s breath away.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the entire expanse of Central Park and the Hudson River.
The room was vast, minimalist, filled with polished dark wood, Italian marble, and original artwork.
And behind a massive desk carved from solid obsidian sat Salvatore Vance.
He looked up from his tablet as the doors opened.
His dark hair was styled back, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw and cheekbones.
He wore a tailored black shirt with the top buttons undone, exuding an aura of absolute control.
“Welcome, Delaney,” Salvatore said, standing up.
May you like
His eyes swept over her, not with scrutiny, but with a quiet, approving presence that made her pulse quicken.
“Please,” he gestured toward the leather chairs facing the glass view. “Sit.”
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