Chapter 7 - The Cleansing of Cedar Hill
We returned to Cedar Hill on Wednesday morning under a clear, autumn sky that smelled of woodsmoke and damp pine needles.
The house was different.
The long driveway had been swept clean of snapped branches; the heavy iron gates at the entrance were closed, guarded by two uniformed security officers standing beside a newly installed digital access kiosk.
When Rowan helped me out of the SUV at the side porch, Lena was waiting by the door. Beside her stood three new household staff members—older women from the local township who looked at me with soft, respectful eyes as Rowan guided me through the door.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Armand,” Lena said, taking my small overnight bag with a warm, genuine smile.
The main foyer no longer smelled of spilled wine or cold stone. The thick velvet drapes in the library had been pulled wide, letting the pale morning sun flood across the dark oak floors and the brass fixtures.
The third-floor door—the one Celeste had kept locked for four years—was hanging open, its brass latch replaced by a brand-new digital deadbolt whose code was held only by Rowan and myself.
Rowan carried me up the grand staircase—despite my protests that I could walk—and set me down gently on the massive king-sized bed in the master suite.
The room had been completely redecorated in forty-eight hours. The heavy, dark coverlets Celeste had insisted on keeping were gone, replaced by soft, cream-colored linen and plush wool throws. On the bedside table sat a large vase of fresh white hydrangeas and a small, wooden box containing my iron supplements, my prenatal vitamins, and a written schedule of my rest hours prepared by Dr. Chen.
“Where are her things?” I asked softly, resting my head against the high leather headboard.
“Packed into forty-two wooden crates,” Rowan said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and taking off his shoes. “They were shipped to a bonded storage facility in Savannah this morning at six. The estate will cover the rental fees for ninety days. After that, her attorney can settle the account.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box, setting it in my lap.
I looked at him, my brow furrowing slightly. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” he said.
Inside was a thin silver key attached to a heavy brass medallion stamped with the seal of the Armand Family Trust.
“That’s the primary key to the estate vault in Atlanta,” Rowan said, his fingers wrapping around mine as I held the metal. “Not the operational sub-account Celeste forged. The main trust—the one that holds the land deeds, the mineral rights, and the core capital funds. As of nine o'clock this morning, David Vance registered you as the co-trustee with sole veto authority over any capital expenditure exceeding five thousand dollars.”
I stared at the heavy brass medallion in my palm. “Rowan... I don't need this to know you trust me.”
“I know you don't,” he said, his voice dropping into a soft, fierce whisper. “That’s why you’re the only person who should hold it. My father built this estate, Abby, but he let my sister ruin it because he was too weak to say no to her. I won't make the same mistake. This house belongs to you and our son now. No one else.”
A knock came at the open bedroom door.
Lena stood in the frame holding a silver tray with a bowl of steaming chicken broth, fresh dry toast, and a large glass of ice water.
“Dr. Chen’s order for eleven-thirty, Mrs. Armand,” Lena said, setting the tray carefully across my lap. “And Mr. Vance is downstairs in the library with the forensic accountants. He says they’ve recovered forty-two thousand dollars from the St. Thomas account already.”
Rowan stood up, bending down to kiss my forehead lingeringly before turning toward the door.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, Abby,” he murmured. “Lena will stay on the landing.”
“Rowan?” I called out as he reached the threshold.
He stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Tell David Vance to leave the blue files on the desk,” I said, a small, quiet smile touching my lips for the first time in six weeks. “I’ll review the final balance sheets myself tomorrow morning.”
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Rowan looked at me for three long seconds, a slow, beautiful smile breaking across his tired face—the first genuine smile I had seen from him since he walked through the front door eighteen hours early.
“Yes, boss,” he said softly, and closed the door behind him.
