Chapter 4 - The Line in the Sand
"Don't you dare!" I screamed, lunging forward to snatch the phone from his hand.
Vincent effortlessly grabbed my wrists with one hand, holding them pinned against his chest while holding the phone to his ear with the other.
"Do you hear me, Frankie?" Vincent barked into the receiver. "Authorization Code Alpha-One. Bring my daughter home."
"Vincent, please!" I sobbed, pure primal terror ripping through my veins as I fought against his grip. "Don't do this! She's four years old! You will terrify her! Please, I'm begging you!"
For five years, I had held my head high. I had been strong, independent, and unyielding. But the thought of armed men bursting into my daughter's peaceful London nursery broke me instantly.
Vincent looked down at me, seeing the tears streaming down my face, seeing the raw, unadulterated terror in my eyes. A flicker of hesitation crossed his dark face. He held the phone away from his ear slightly.
"Cancel the order, Frankie," Vincent said into the phone, his eyes locked onto mine. "Hold the jet on the tarmac in London. Keep eyes on the house. Nobody touches her until I give the personal command."
He hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket, but he didn't release my wrists. He pulled me closer to his broad chest, his breath warm against my forehead.
"You have twenty-four hours, Claire," Vincent conditions stated, his voice low and absolute. "You will pack your things from your hotel. You will move back into the penthouse with me today. You will sit down with my legal team and officially retract those divorce papers. And tomorrow morning, we will fly to London together to bring our daughter home to her proper place."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, my voice shaking with rage.
"If you refuse," Vincent murmured softly, "I will issue that command to Frankie. My men will bring Mia to Chicago within twelve hours, and I will file for sole emergency custody based on your international abandonment of the Moretti estate. You know the judges in this city, Claire. Half of them sit in my pocket. You will never see her again."
I stared at him, realizing with sickening clarity that he wasn't bluffing. He was Vincent Moretti—a man who had crushed multi-billion-dollar rival corporations without blinking. To him, this was simply a war, and my daughter was the ultimate prize.
"You are a monster," I whispered.
"I am her father," he corrected coldly. "And I am your husband. You have until six o'clock tonight to be at the penthouse."
He finally released my wrists, adjusted his suit jacket, and walked out of the VIP suite without another word.
I collapsed onto the wooden chair beside my mother's bed, burying my face in my hands as uncontrollable sobs racked my body. I was trapped. The fortress I had spent five years building had been completely demolished in a matter of days.
"Claire..."
A faint, raspy whisper broke through my crying.
I jolted upright, looking at the bed. My mother's eyelids were fluttering open. Her oxygen mask was fogged with her shallow breathing, but her fingers were weakly twitching against mine.
"Mom!" I gasped, wiping my tears frantically as I stood up and leaned over her. "Mom, can you hear me? Nurse! Doctor!"
"Claire... my sweet girl..." my mother rasped, her voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. "I... I heard..."
My heart plummeted into my stomach. "Mom, don't talk, save your strength—"
"I heard him..." my mother whispered, her weak eyes focusing on mine with a sudden, surprising clarity. "Vincent... he doesn't know..."
"He knows about Mia, Mom," I wept softly. "He knows."
"No..." my mother squeezed my hand with surprising strength for a woman who had just woken from a coma. "He doesn't know... about Sophia... about the trust..."
I frowned, leaning closer to her mouth. "What trust, Mom?"
"Your father... and I..." my mother panted, her heart monitor beginning to beep rapidly. "We found out... three weeks ago... before my stroke. Sophia... she isn't... she isn't innocent, Claire. She... she forged the birth certificate..."
My eyes widened in shock. "What?"
"Oliver... isn't Vincent's nephew..." my mother gasped out, struggling for breath as the heart monitor began sounding an alarm. "Oliver... is... he is..."
Before she could finish the sentence, the VIP room doors burst open again, and Dr. Harrison rushed in with two trauma nurses.
"Mrs. Bennett is having another spike in intracranial pressure!" Dr. Harrison shouted, pushing me gently out of the way. "Clear the room! We need to stabilize her immediately!"
I was pushed out into the sterile hallway, the doors slamming shut in my face.
I stood there, my mind spinning out of control. Sophia forged the birth certificate? Oliver isn't Vincent's nephew?
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I turned around to process what my mother had just said, only to find Sophia standing at the end of the hallway, holding a fresh cup of coffee, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated venom.
She had been listening near the door.
