Madly Yours (Nora Reed) novel Chapter 724

Vincent’s lips curled into a smirk, and he let out a laugh. "With a mouth like that, can't you manage a single decent greeting for the holidays?"

His gaze shifted past Hudson and landed on Nora. He tilted his head slightly. "Mrs. Lancaster. Or wait, should I say, the Fairchild Heiress? Man, it’s a small world. Who would've thought you were the missing daughter of the Fairchild family all along?"

Nora offered a faint smile. "It really is a small world."

Vincent's eyes drifted further and landed on Finnian. He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow with a mocking half-smile. "Oh? The great Finnian Fairchild graced us with his presence? What a rare guest."

Finnian met his gaze with absolute stoicism. "Happy New Year, Vincent."

Vincent snorted, not bothering to return the sentiment. He turned sideways and gestured dramatically toward the exit. "Let’s go. The motorcade is waiting. Grandpa cleared two poker games off his schedule just to wait for you."

Hudson glanced at Nora, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and followed Vincent toward the sprawling parking garage.

Vincent’s love for theatrical excess was on full display.

Over a dozen gleaming black luxury SUVs were lined up in a perfect row. Beside each vehicle stood a stone-faced bodyguard.

Vincent pulled open the rear door of the centermost SUV and stepped aside. "After you, Mr. Lancaster."

Hudson slid in without hesitation, bringing Nora in beside him. Finnian wordlessly took the front passenger seat.

Vincent, knowing better than to crowd the volatile group, casually hopped into one of the trailing vehicles to avoid becoming collateral damage.

The massive convoy rolled out of the airport, cruising smoothly down Chicago's wide western highways.

The towering glass skyscrapers slowly gave way to low-rise brick buildings and ancient oaks, eventually transitioning into the historic, cobblestone streets of the old city.

After another twenty minutes, the motorcade turned down a secluded, private avenue.

At the very end of the lane stood a pair of colossal, dark-wood doors, the heavy brass knockers polished to a high sheen by decades of wear.

Mounted beside the entrance was a dark mahogany plaque bearing gold-leaf lettering: Vaughn Manor.

The gates had been thrown open in advance. Without breaking speed, the motorcade swept inside, winding past an enormous privacy wall before parking in the vast courtyard of the inner estate.

Nora stepped out of the SUV, her eyes sweeping over the property. It was the absolute epitome of Chicago old money—slate-gray brick, intricate sweeping rooftops, and winding verandas. An ancient oak tree dominated the central courtyard, its thick, twisting branches a testament to its age. Though it was winter, one could easily imagine the lush canopy it provided in the summer.

Potted orchids thrived along the covered walkways, their leaves an impossible shade of green. The crisp winter air was laced with the scent of sandalwood and freshly brewed coffee.

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