PROPERTY OF THE VAULT

Chapter 4: A Wreath of Solitude

​Eden was forced to sign Damon's and Cain's contract. Who even talks like that anymore? Let alone acts on such things. In that single, terrifying moment, she felt her rights and liberty stripped away. Her independence, her selfhood, was instantly taken. Who was the worse monster? The father who set her up for this, or the men who were actively doing this to her? At this point, everyone in her life was a monster, except for Veronica.

​The morning after the contract signing was a paralyzing, leaden weight. Eden couldn't move until the early afternoon. Her body felt like it was recovering from a car crash, not just a night of terror and grief. Every muscle ached with the effort of simply breathing. She stared at the black V-neck shirt and ripped bell-bottom jeans—the same clothes she had worn to meet her captors—now laid out for the funeral. They were the only things she owned that felt remotely appropriate for a formal setting; the black was necessary, the rips a silent, angry protest.

​She had called what little extended family they had left to invite them to the funeral. None of them could make it. None of them were close with her dad anymore. "We'll see who shows up," she mumbled to herself. Eden had placed a small, simple obituary in the local paper, just in case anyone in the area knew her father and wanted to attend. The last thing she wanted was to dishonor her dad by having no one there, despite the fury churning in her gut.

​Thankfully, Veronica agreed to show up, a small, reliable beacon of humanity in the encroaching darkness. But as far as old co-workers, he had none; friends, nada; and family either sided with her mother twenty years ago or had simply drifted out of Ric's complicated life. It’s crazy how life can change in just a few moments, she thought, slipping out of her sweatpants. One moment she was a caretaker and a waitress, the next she was an orphan and a slave. Orphaned. I guess I am.

​In planning his funeral, she decided he would get the cheapest thing possible. He would be cremated. She took the cash she had meticulously saved for the house's next mortgage payment—money she was now sure she wouldn't need—and used it for the cremation fee instead of the plot he had bought. It was a vicious choice. Instead of being laid to rest in the suburban plot he'd purchased years ago, he was going on her mantle, where she could gaze at him in disappointment for the rest of her life. It was the least she could do for him after he sold her as his collateral.

​The choice of cremation was more than just spite; it was a cold, calculated act of self-preservation. She couldn't afford a proper burial, the headstone, the perpetual care fees. A plot of land was a liability, a place she would be forced to visit and mourn. The urn was portable, a constant, physical reminder of the debt he forced on her, and the anger she needed to survive.

​A few days later, the funeral was held. Veronica showed up, her presence a soft, warm blanket. She squeezed Eden's hand beneath the pew, her eyes silently asking Are you okay? and Tell me everything.

​"I’m so sorry, honey," Veronica whispered before the service began, her voice thick. "I just... I wish I could do more. I'm going to take the week off work so I can be with you, okay? We’ll figure this out."

​Eden’s mask almost cracked. "Thank you," she managed, squeezing back. "Just stay next to me."

​But there were also a few unexpected visitors there to pay their respects, or perhaps to assess the human prize they knew Damon and Cain had acquired.

​A small handful of random people showed up, dropped a flower in the basket, and left, treating the service like a mandatory chore. Eden watched them, calculating their cost in the scheme of her father's failure.

​Thank God she didn't put a lot of heart into the luncheon she prepared. She had brought store-bought cookies and ordered a few trays of sub sandwiches. Coffee and lemonade were provided by the church, thank God. Well, she was thanking God until a tiny, impeccably dressed woman from the church came to tell her what she thought.

​"Oh, terrible caterer, darling," the woman, Mrs. Halverson, drawled, lifting a brow at the humble buffet. "Did you get anything from the good baker in Chicago? Ric deserved something better than these... triangles." She gestured dismissively at the pre-cut crustless sandwiches.

​Eden felt a white-hot wave of humiliation wash over her. She watched the woman walk away toward a cluster of other Oak Brook matriarchs, their voices already lowered in conspiratorial whispers. Eden slowly approached the table herself, not to fix anything, but to perform a devastating inventory.

​Her stomach, which had been tight and knotted with fear and grief for days, was now sending a sharp, undeniable wave of hunger. She hadn't eaten a proper meal since before her father died. She looked at the small pile of cookies—oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, peanut butter. She could sneak three of them into her jacket pocket. The sub sandwiches were already cut in quarters, ready for discreet theft. She mentally calculated how many of those quarters she could carry away without the trays looking obviously depleted, enough to cover her dinner and lunch for the next two days. It was a vile, necessary calculation—the true cost of being financially destitute in a room full of people who spent more on their hats than she made in a week.

​She was just about to reach for a plastic-wrapped napkin when the most infamous woman in the room materialized beside her.

​Mrs. Chadwick, whose daughter Eden had awkwardly shared a Calculus class with, leaned in too close, the scent of expensive perfume sickeningly sweet. “Such a shame about your father's timing, dear. He was so vibrant. I hear he had quite the portfolio. I hope you're keeping his financial advisor, Eden? Now, tell me, where are you working now? The Vault, isn't it? Very exclusive.”

​The whispered question hit Eden like a punch. The Vault. How did she know? The news had only been hours old. The sheer velocity of Oak Brook gossip was breathtaking and terrifying. Eden pulled her hand back from the food, her moment of desperate calculation ruined and exposed.

​"I... just started. Part-time," Eden lied, the shame burning her cheeks.

​"Part-time," Mrs. Chadwick repeated, a knowing arch in her perfectly sculpted brow. "Well, that's just marvelous. Damon and Cain only hire the most exceptional young women. You must be very talented." She didn't wait for a response, moving off to circulate.

​The few who did stay dragged on and on about her father's "great success" in investing. They said all of this blind to the fact that he had left her with nothing more than a financial disaster and a predatory debt. Eden could only be grateful that they were quick to shut up and leave. Leave it to me to expect too much of the world again. Disappointment seemed to be the only constant she could count on—more reliable than any man she’d ever known.

​Veronica stayed until the last plastic cup was thrown away. "Do you want me to drive you to the funeral home to get the urn?" she asked softly.

​"No," Eden said, her voice flat. "I need to do it alone. Thank you for being here, Roni. Truly."

​They hugged for a long time—a deep, grounding embrace that felt like the last vestige of her previous life. When Veronica finally pulled away, leaving a smear of light lipstick on Eden's shoulder, she made one last plea.

​"If anything goes wrong at that club, if you need anything at all, you call me. Swear to me you won't disappear."

​"I swear," Eden said, the lie tasting like dust.

​She drove alone to the funeral home, the afternoon light feeling too bright and cruel. When the director handed her a simple, heavy mahogany box containing her father's remains, the administrative coldness of the transaction was a shock. This small, sealed box was the final, devastating chapter of her heroic father. It was the physical weight of his death and the unbearable emotional weight of his betrayal.

​She drove past the diner, a strange, overwhelming sense of familiarity hitting her. The seagulls, she thought, a small, dark joke. The seagulls are always happy for dropped food.

​I couldn't bear the thought of going home to my silent house and racing thoughts after that funeral. So, I took my sorry, black-clad self to the diner with my trays of sub sandwiches and my three trays of store-bought cookies. If nothing else, the other waitresses, the "seagulls," would be happy I brought in food.

​I laid the trays of food out on the counter. The other girls immediately descended, grabbing the free lunch with loud, boisterous thanks. It was a momentary, shallow comfort—a brief return to the simple world of coffee and tips, before the darkness of The Vault consumed her again.

​I drove home. I placed the urn—the miserable piece of s**t—on the mantelpiece of the fireplace in the living room. Then, I yelled at him until I was too tired to yell, my voice breaking on a high, raw note of betrayal.

​"You don’t get peace, Dad," I told the box, my voice falling to a quiet, vicious certainty. "You don't get the clean burial you earned. You have to sit here and watch me pay for the mistake you made. You have to watch me be theirs."

​I stripped off my black clothes and sank into the couch, the cold, smooth wood of the mantelpiece a sharp contrast to the empty silence of the house. The urn sat high above me, a silent, terrible witness, beginning its eternity of disappointment.