Chapter 3: The Chase to the Gates
I didn't wait to hear the rest of Elena's ultimatum. Scooping Chloe into my arms—ignoring the dark stains on her dress that smeared against my white jacket—I turned and headed straight for the private service exit. The little girl gasped, instinctively wrapping her thin arms around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder, her small frame trembling with every ragged breath.
"Hold on to me, Chloe," I muttered, my boots pounding against the concrete stairs of the grand estate's back terrace. "I've got you. Nobody is taking you anywhere."
The heavy oak doors swung shut behind us, cutting off the murmurs of the bewildered wedding guests inside. The midday sun hit my eyes, sharp and blinding, bouncing off the sleek black hoods of the parked catering vans and luxury sedans lining the circular drive. Out near the wrought-iron security gates, a white utility van idling by the shrubbery began to pull away, its tires crunching softly on the gravel.
That had to be them.
Carrying a seven-year-old in a formal tuxedo was clumsy work, but adrenaline pushed me forward. I sprinted down the stone steps, dodging a caterer balancing a tray of champagne flutes that went crashing to the ground with a bright, metallic shatter. Shouts erupted behind me, but I ignored the commotion, focusing entirely on the retreating van.
"Hey! Stop the vehicle!" I yelled, waving my free hand as I broke into the open driveway.
The van braked abruptly, its brake lights glowing a harsh, accusing red. The passenger door pushed open, and a middle-aged woman in a gray uniform—the very nanny Chloe had described—stepped down onto the gravel. Her face twisted into an expression of sour annoyance when she saw me charging toward her, still dressed for a wedding that no longer existed.
"Mr. Vance, you shouldn't be out here," the woman said, her voice clipped and professional, entirely devoid of warmth. "We have a schedule to keep. The girl needs to be transferred before the reception concludes."
I stopped a few feet away, chest heaving, carefully shifting Chloe so she was standing behind me while still holding her hand. "You're not taking her anywhere," I said, stepping between the nanny and the child. "Open the back doors of that van right now."
The nanny crossed her arms, her lips tightening into a thin line. "I take my orders from Miss Elena. And Miss Elena's orders are explicit. The child is a ward of the foundation, and her placement has already been finalized."
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"Not anymore," I snapped, stepping past her before she could react, my hand reaching for the heavy sliding side door of the van. With a sharp pull, I slid it open.
Inside, the back of the van was dark, fitted with utilitarian storage bins and a single bolted-down folding chair. But tucked away in the corner, half-hidden beneath a pile of spare linens, was a small suitcase bearing initials that didn't belong to Chloe. The air inside smelled of bleach and old dust.
