Chapter 55 - 59
Avara POV
I hasten to catch up with Vance as he strides toward the parking bay that flanks the sleek, elevated restaurant, where an awning shelters a pristine lineup of luxury vehicles. The cars gleam even in the westering light, their lacquered surfaces reflecting the glow of the restaurant perched on the crest of the highland. Each vehicle is watched over by a contingent of guards, their posture alert. The air is still, a kind of silent reverence infused in the atmosphere, broken only by the faint rustle of wind whispering through the valley and the distant murmur of voices from inside the restaurant.
Vance moves with a measured grace, every step deliberate, exuding a controlled, effortless confidence that draws attention without attempting to command it. His chin is lifted just so, a subtle nod to sophistication, yet not overstated—a hint of assurance that is simply his natural state. As we reach the driver and guard of our convoy, he pauses for a fraction, affording them a polite, composed smile that dances on the edge of formal and friendly.
"Gentlemen," he acknowledges, his voice calm yet edged with purpose. The words are smooth as if poured, the tone capturing that precise balance between respect and an undeniable authority. "I need the keys to the car. I don’t care which one." The command is unadorned, delivered with an innate power that brooks no argument—a seamless blend of refinement and assertion. The men exchange a quick glance.
"It’s not really up for debate," Vance says with a patient smile, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I want the keys to the car. So I’ll have the keys to the car," he concludes with a stern pound at the cliff of his delivery that is fatal and final.
"Respectfully sir," the guard begins. "Mr Vacheron—your father informed us of no changes."
"As Mr Vacheron’s son—I’m informing you of the changes," he says with a fiercely stoic expression. "If you must now. Avara is feeling unwell. Subsequently, I received an urgent communication from the director of one of our subsidiaries, necessitating my personal attention to the matter, as would be expected by my father. So I need to leave and I would like to take Avara home. If that’s okay with you?"
The sarcastic scorn makes his gaze waver. Without looking at anyone, the guard makes a quick and harsh gesture. Compelled by the weight of his insistence, one of them hands him a key with a deferential nod. Vance snatches it with a scathing smile before he drops it. With a practiced flick, Vance opens the car door, and for a brief moment, he pauses, glancing back at me. The usual steely composure cracks open, just enough to reveal a faint, lopsided smile—a glimpse beneath the mask of unwavering control. It’s subtle, a softened expression that feels rare, like a guarded secret meant only for those who know to look closely.
I step forward, catching the eye of the guards flanking us, who stand stiff and vigilant in the cool evening air. I throw them a quick, rueful smile in acknowledgment, a silent gesture that’s very much apologetic. I mean, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble here.
The faint scent of leather and expensive cologne fills the air as I approach the gleaming black G-Wagon. Its dark-tinted windows and rugged elegance make it stand out even in this collection of pristine vehicles. With a gentle push, I slide into the passenger seat; the interior cloaking me in comfort and quiet as I close the door. Vance settles into the driver’s seat beside me, his earlier half-smile still lingering as he starts the engine. The powerful hum of the G-Wagon vibrates under us, a sound as refined and composed as he is, as we pull away from the silent, watchful stares of the guards outside.