Chapter 3 – Vows Burn to Vengeance
587 Words
**Chicago, one year later**
“Again," Arthur growled.
The heavy bag swung violently from the last hit. His knuckles bled through the wraps.
“Boss," Marco, his lieutenant, hesitated from the edge of the gym. “You've been at this for three hours."
Arthur didn't answer. He launched a brutal uppercut, followed by a knee strike that rocked the chain.
“Still no memory?" Marco asked carefully.
Arthur grabbed a towel, breathing hard. “Only flashes. Smoke. Screams. A woman's voice saying my name. Over and over."
Marco stepped closer. “You think it's her?"
Arthur's jaw clenched. “I don't think. I know."
He stared at the chain around his neck—the scorched wedding band swinging gently.
“She left you for dead," Marco said. “We have the footage. Burned wreckage. No other bodies. Just you."
“Then where is she?" Arthur demanded. “If she died, I'd have closure. But this—" he pointed to his temple—“this isn't grief. It's unfinished."
Marco exhaled. “What do you want us to do?"
“Expand the search parameters. Facial recognition, underground clinics, ghost identities. I don't care what it costs."
“You sure?" Marco asked. “The board already thinks you've gone soft. Giving away assets. Shutting down old operations."
Arthur's gaze darkened. “I'm not soft. I'm evolving."
He picked up a folder from the bench—blueprints, shipping manifests, encrypted ledgers with red marks through every fentanyl-related shipment.
“We're cleaning house. No more drugs. No more poison. If they don't like it, they can leave or bleed."
Marco nodded slowly. “So, we're vigilantes now?"
“We're what we always should've been."
Arthur glanced at the mirror. His reflection stared back: harder, leaner, scar stitched near his temple like a silent accusation.
“And when I find her," he said softly, “I'll ask why she ran—before I decide if she deserves to breathe."
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**Later – Morgan Holdings, private server room**
“Pull up all aliases related to Sophie Lane," Arthur ordered. “Past and present."
The analyst hesitated. “Sir, there's nothing under that name after the crash."
“Then find who doesn't exist," Arthur snapped. “Start with hospitals. Prenatal records. Baby registries."
“Baby?" the tech blinked.
Arthur turned slowly.
“I was engaged," he said flatly. “We were planning a future. If she lied about everything else—she might've lied about that too."
The tech swallowed and nodded. “Understood."
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**That night – Arthur's private penthouse**
He stood at the window, suit jacket off, fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
The city blinked below in cold amber lights. His reflection wavered against the glass—too sharp, too restless.
The fireplace behind him cast long shadows.
Arthur touched the wedding band again, like a prayer he didn't want answered.
His phone buzzed.
**UNKNOWN SOURCE: VIDEO FILE RECEIVED**
He opened it.
Grainy security cam. A café. A woman behind a counter, laughing as she handed a child a pastry.
Dark braid. Familiar tilt of her head. A little girl spun on a stool—curly hair, amber eyes.
Arthur's grip turned white.
“Pause," he whispered.
The frame froze—mother and daughter, smiling.
Sophie.
She was alive.
And she had a child.
His world narrowed to one impossible certainty.
He slammed the laptop shut and whispered through clenched teeth:
“You stole six years from me, Sophie."
His eyes blazed.
“I'm coming to take them back."
- Writer
