Chapter 4I Bought The Ocean Liner

The roar of the ship's horn reverberated through the steel hull as the "SS Victoria" steamed into New York Harbor.

Through the door, I could hear the faint sound of a brass marching band on the pier, accompanied by the bright, chiming laughter of high society toastmasters.

The iron door was thrown open.

Two nurses grabbed me by the straps, hauling me upright. They stripped away my ruined dress and shoved me into a coarse, oversized asylum gown. Then, they strapped my wrists and ankles into a heavy wooden wheelchair with thick leather buckles.

"Pardon the rough handling, ma'am," one sneered as she wheeled me out onto the lift.

The blinding morning sun seared my eyes.

The upper deck had been transformed into an opulent reception. A four-tiered champagne tower sparkled in the sunlight, surrounded by Manhattan’s wealthiest financiers, shipping magnates, and politicians.

Charles stood beside the champagne tower, resplendent in a tailored white morning suit, looking every bit the tragic, noble gentleman. Beside him, Beatrice wore my mother’s jade bracelets and a pristine lace gown, playing the part of the devoted comforter.

When the nurses pushed my wheelchair onto the teak deck, the music faltered.

Gasps of horror and whispered gossip rippled through the elite crowd.

"Good heavens... the great Camille Laurent, reduced to this."

"Charles is a saint. Most men would have locked her away quietly, but he brought her home to the best doctors."

"And look at Miss Beatrice—so gracious, standing by him through this tragedy."

Charles walked over and knelt beside my chair, his eyes brimmed with profound sorrow.

"We’re home, Camille. The ambulance is waiting at the dock. St. Jude’s is lovely this time of year. You will heal."

He stood and turned to the crowd, raising his voice so every ear could hear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today under such sorrowful circumstances. As many of you can see, the immense strain of managing our foreign ventures has broken my dear wife’s mind. After exhaustive consultations with medical experts, she is no longer fit to oversee the Laurent estate or her seat on the Trade Board."

He took a ledger from his private attorney.

"To ensure the preservation of our family’s legacy, Camille’s full shares, properties, and commercial rights are hereby transferred into a trust managed by Beatrice."

Beatrice stepped forward, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Rest assured, Charles, I will guard her legacy until the day she recovers."

She reached for the gold Parker pen.

The moment that ink touched the page, every business empire I had bled for in Europe, along with the inheritance my grandfather left me, would belong to her.

I was strapped down, a gag stuffed into my mouth to keep me silent. I could only manage muffled, furious groans as the pen descended toward the paper.

Just as the nib touched the line—

"HOOOOOOONK—"

A deafening, earth-shaking blast from a naval horn ripped across the water, drowning out the string quartet and shattering the serene harbor air.

The crowd gasped, turning toward the bay.

Cutting through the morning fog was a massive, pitch-black industrial freighter, its steel hull bearing down directly across the "SS Victoria’s" bow, blocking her path to the dock with sheer, brutal force.

The vessel flew no national banner.

At its mainmast flew a single, massive black flag embroidered with a gold insignia: a roaring lion clutching a sword.

The mark of Dante Rhodes.

The undisputed immortal titan of the Eastern seaboard—a centuries-old vampire lord who controlled the docks, the banks, and the nocturnal shadows of New York.

"What is this? Why is Rhodes’s flagship blocking our berth?"

Panicked murmurs broke out among the financiers. Charles’s calm facade cracked for a fraction of a second, though he quickly shielded Beatrice behind him.

A massive steel gangplank slammed down from the freighter, crashing onto the promenade deck of the "SS Victoria" with an ear-splitting boom.

A detachment of men in tailored black trench coats marched across the steel bridge in lockstep, their hands resting deliberately on the holsters beneath their lapels.

Behind them strode Dante Rhodes.

He wore a dark charcoal suit, an unlit Cuban cigar clamped between his fingers. His sharp, predatory features—accentuated by eyes carrying a faint, timeless, crimson-laced gleam—radiated absolute authority, like an immortal king inspecting an occupied territory.

Dante stepped onto the deck, his dress shoes clicking against the teak. He walked straight toward Charles, ignoring the trembling socialites parting before him.

Charles forced a polite, diplomatic smile. "Mr. Rhodes... I wasn't aware I had offended you. To what do we owe the honor of your personal intervention?"

Dante blew a plume of gray smoke directly into Charles's face.

He didn't even glance at my husband. His gaze swept past the crowd, locking instantly onto me—bound, gagged, and strapped into a lunatic’s chair.

In that instant, the cold, ageless composure in Dante’s dark eyes shattered, replaced by an ocean of lethal, volcanic fury.

He dropped the cigar and ground it to dust under his heel.

"Charles," Dante rasped, his voice a smooth, chilling baritone as deadly as a blade sliding from a scabbard. "Did you lose your fucking mind, strapping my most valuable partner to a wheelchair?"