Chapter 2 - THE STORYBOOK
Hannah did not scream. She did not fight. As Emma’s frantic sobs echoed through the rain-slicked alley, a primal instinct overrode Hannah’s terror. She moved past Dominic’s imposing frame, ignoring the heavily armed men flanking the black SUV, and reached into the vehicle.
“It’s okay,” Hannah whispered, her voice trembling but miraculously steady. “I’m right here, sweetie.”
The moment her fingers brushed the toddler’s tear-stained cheek, Emma’s crying ceased. The little girl lunged forward, burying her face into the curve of Hannah’s neck. The tiny arms locked around her with a desperate, unyielding grip. A heavy silence descended on the alley, broken only by the rhythmic thud of the rain against the pavement.
Dominic stood perfectly still, his dark eyes tracking every millimeter of Hannah’s movement. He gestured sharply to his men. “Get in.”
The ride to the Vale estate was agonizingly quiet. The triplets sat in their reinforced car seats, but they refused to take their eyes off Hannah. Lily, the quietest of the three, kept reaching her small hand across the console, her fingers brushing against Hannah’s rain-dampened apron. Grace held a battered, velvet-bound book tightly against her chest, her dark eyes wide and watchful.
Hannah stared out the tinted window, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was a waitress drowning in medical debt, a girl who spent her nights entering insurance claims to keep the lights on in a cramped Queens apartment. Now, she was sitting in a bulletproof SUV with the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard.
“You’re shivering,” Dominic observed. His voice lacked the menacing edge it had at the restaurant, replaced by a quiet, calculating neutrality.
“I’m kidnapped,” Hannah replied, not looking at him. “Forgive me if I’m not entirely comfortable.”
Dominic reached over, pulling a heavy cashmere blanket from the seat back, and draped it over her shoulders. The warmth was immediate, contrasting sharply with the cold dread pooling in her stomach. “I do not harm innocents, Miss Mercer. I merely require answers.”
“I don’t have them! I don’t know your children. I don’t know you.”
“And yet,” Dominic murmured, his gaze shifting to the rearview mirror where Emma was now peacefully asleep, her hand still reaching toward Hannah’s seat. “They know you. They have never spoken a word to me. Never called for me when they wake up terrified in the dark. But they looked at a stranger and called her mother. I will not rest until I understand why.”
The SUV turned off a secluded highway, passing through massive wrought-iron gates that swung open seamlessly. The Vale estate was less a home and more a fortress—a sprawling stone mansion overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by dense, watchful woods.
Inside, the house was stiflingly silent. Hannah was escorted upstairs by an older, stern-faced nanny named Mrs. Gable, who looked at Hannah with a mixture of suspicion and awe. Dominic followed closely behind, his presence a heavy shadow.
The nursery was breathtaking. It was a massive room painted in soft pastels, filled with imported toys and pristine white cribs. But Hannah’s attention was immediately drawn to Grace. The toddler had scrambled out of Mrs. Gable’s arms, clutching the velvet-bound book she had carried in the car.
Grace waddled over to Hannah and shoved the book against Hannah’s knees.
“Read,” Grace demanded, her voice a tiny, raspy squeak.
Dominic stiffened, stepping forward. “That is her second word.”
Hannah slowly sank to the plush carpet, her hands trembling as she took the heavy book. It wasn't a published children's book. It was hand-bound, the velvet soft and worn from years of small, gripping fingers. She opened the cover. The pages were filled with beautiful, intricate watercolors and elegant, hand-written calligraphy.
“For my beautiful girls,” the first page read. “When the shadows grow long, your Guardian will watch over you.”
Hannah turned the page. Her breath hitched. Her heart stopped beating for a full, terrifying second.
There, painted in exquisite, undeniable detail, was a watercolor portrait of a woman standing beneath a willow tree. The woman was wearing a faded denim jacket, a silver locket around her neck, and her hair was tied back in a messy knot.
It was Hannah.
Not just a woman who looked like her. It was exactly her, down to the small, crescent-shaped scar above her collarbone.
“Where did you get this?” Hannah choked out, the book nearly slipping from her grasp.
Dominic crouched beside her, his jaw tight. “My wife, Clara, painted and wrote that book during her pregnancy. She finished it the day before she died giving birth to them. The girls refuse to sleep without looking at that page.”
Hannah stared at the painted face of her own likeness. “That’s impossible. I never met your wife. I never sat for a painting.”
“Turn the page,” Dominic commanded softly.
Hannah’s trembling fingers flipped the heavy parchment. On the next page, tucked into a small paper pocket glued to the binding, was a physical photograph. It was a polaroid of Hannah, sitting at a diner, laughing.
But it wasn't just any diner. It was the café where her late father used to meet his insurance clients.
May you like
Dominic reached out, pulling the photograph from the pocket. He turned it over. On the back, written in frantic, hurried ink, were three words.
Trust only her.
