All Chapters of Shadows of the Vow: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Annabelle's POV Two days. That was all we had left before dispatch.Two days before the canvases would leave the Dome and scatter themselves across continents, homes, museums, private collections, and quiet rooms where people would stand alone and feel something they could not name.It was already the last week of January.The kind that reminds you how quickly time moves when you are no longer waiting, but building. January used to be my longest month of the year but this year's January seems to be the shortest.Very early that morning, even before the first cock crowed, I sat in the quiet of my work studio, orders spread before me, my breath steady, my mind awake. I had already converted one of the empty rooms in the Dome into a work studio.I sat on one of the crates, thinking about Antonioni. I missed him badly. I needed his touches, his kisses, his lovemaking, and the controlling way he looked into my eyes, hoping to make me perceive him as ‘possessive.’ That scared the hell out

Lorenzo's POV Marta talked when she was nervous.Not recklessly. Not emotionally.But in fragments. She offered the details as if they were harmless, like crumbs scattered without awareness of who was watching the ground.She didn’t know that about herself.I did.She had just returned from the prison when she came to me. Still dressed in muted colors, coat folded over her arm, eyes sharper than she intended them to be. There was a stiffness to her posture that told me everything before she even sat down.Antonioni had unsettled her.That alone was useful.She lowered herself onto the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs with care. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of the city beyond the closed glass.“He’s… composed,” she said first. “More than I expected.”I didn’t respond immediately. I let silence do what it always did, like pulling more truth forward.“He’s not broken,” she continued, almost to herself. “Not afraid either.”

Annabelle’s POV  Mama Espe found me in the kitchen just after the first cock crowed. She always did that. Always walked around the house every midnight. As if she sensed movement before sound, intention before action. I was sealing the last lunch box when she entered, her headgear firmly in place, her eyes already scanning. The counter was laid out too neatly to be ignored—stacked containers, carefully portioned fruits, vegetables washed and cut, nuts, boiled eggs, two flasks of water, and bottles of freshly pressed juice lined up like soldiers. She stopped short. “Annabelle,” she said slowly, suspicious already. “Where are you going?” I straightened, wiping my hands on a towel. “Training.” Her brows knitted instantly. “Training again?” She walke

Lorenzo’s POVThere is a particular kind of rage that does not scream. It plans ahead of time.That was the kind I carried with me into Germany. Cold. Measured. Patient.I was already in Germany with Scales and my two other men when the clash in events dawned on me. Annabelle was boarding a flight to Cambodia the same day I landed in Munich. Two trajectories crossing the world at opposite ends, both pulled by the same invisible thread: Antonioni. His life. His orbit. His protection.I had intended to cut one of his pillars.Martinez.For weeks, the name had fermented in my chest like poison. A man I had misjudged. A man I had thought irrelevant. A man I had believed was safely tucked away in Germany, living a quiet academic life, far from the Park, far from the Dome, far from consequence.I was wrong.Martinez was not just present.He was rooted in Antonioni's Park. I saw him during one of Annabelle's live sessions and Marta confirmed it to me when she returned from visiting Antonioni

Annabelle’s POV  The turbulence was not an accident. I knew it the moment instinct overtook fear. The helicopter didn’t just shake, it lurched, violently, as if struck from its side. Metal screamed. The calm hum of flight fractured into chaos. Warning lights flashed red, sharp and urgent, bathing the cabin in a pulse that felt like a countdown. Attack. The word didn’t scare me. Instead, it focused me. The pilot swore under his breath, hands steady despite the assault. I saw it then… The glint through the side window, the second craft closing in too fast, too deliberate. Gunfire cracked through the air, sharp and deafening, bullets striking metal, glass, possibility. The pilot was hit, or should I say, should have been hit. He jerked, but didn’t fall. “Bulletproof,” he shouted over the