"“I’m taking Sophia out first,” Vincent promised before leading another woman to safety while leaving his pregnant wife behind to burn.

The gilded ballroom of the Drake Hotel vanished. The orchestra, the clinking crystal flutes, the quiet laughter of Chicago’s high society—everything muted into a deafening, static roar inside Vincent Moretti’s skull.

*“Mommy!”*

The little boy couldn’t have been more than three years old. He had messy dark curls, flushed cheeks, and a bright, breathless smile as he wrapped two small arms tightly around the woman’s knees.

The woman looked down, her expression softening into pure, radiant warmth. She knelt smoothly, heedless of the emerald silk gown brushing the marble floor, and caught the child against her chest.

“Leo, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice like velvet, smooth and steady. “What did I tell you about running away from Clara?”

Vincent’s boots felt welded to the floor.

It was her voice.

It was the same voice that had whispered vows to him in a candlelit cathedral four years ago. The same voice that had pleaded with him inside a shuddering, smoke-filled fuselage thirty thousand feet above the Rockies.

*“Vincent, what about me?”*

Beside him, Sophia Carter let out a sharp, ragged gasp. Her manicured nails dug deep into Vincent’s tailored sleeve. “Vincent… no. That’s… that’s impossible. She died. We buried her. We held the memorial!”

Vincent didn't look at Sophia. He shook her off violently, his gaze locked on the kneeling woman.

Three years of agonizing nightmares. Three years of standing in an empty nursery in his Lake Forest mansion, staring at an unused crib, drinking himself into oblivion while the image of an exploding jet played on repeat behind his eyelids. He had watched the flames devour the sky. He had personally funded a six-month search through the charred mountain pass, recovering only twisted metal and ashes.

And now, she was kneeling ten feet away.

“Anna,” the name tore from his throat, cracked and raw.

The woman picked up the boy, resting him comfortably on her hip. She turned slowly.

Vincent’s breath caught.

There was no smudge of soot on her porcelain skin. The soft, gentle innocence that had defined Anna Bennett was gone. Her dark hair was cut into a sharp, sophisticated bob that framed cheekbones sharpened by maturity. Her lips, once painted in muted pinks, were painted in an unapologetic crimson.

She met Vincent’s gaze.

There was no flash of shock. No tearful collapse. No tremor of recognition.

Her eyes—almond-shaped, an arresting shade of hazel—were as cold and vacant as frozen ice.

“Excuse me?” she said smoothly, her gaze drifting over Vincent as if he were nothing more than a poorly placed pillar in the corridor.

Vincent stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged beast. “Anna. Don’t do this. My God… you’re alive. You’re—”

He reached out, his trembling hand desperate to touch her cheek, to confirm she was made of flesh and bone, not the specter of his guilt.

Before his fingers could graze her skin, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out from the shadows beside her. Dressed in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo, the man moved with the silent, lethal grace of an apex predator. He caught Vincent’s wrist in a vise-like grip mid-air.

“I’d suggest you keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Moretti,” the man said in a deep, calm baritone.

Vincent snarled, his mafia-bred instincts flaring instantly. He jerked his arm free, squaring his shoulders. He recognized the man immediately: Julian Vance. Heir to Vance Global, an international shipping titan that had recently relocated its headquarters from London to Chicago. A man whose wealth and influence rivaled the Moretti empire.

“Stay out of this, Vance,” Vincent warned, his voice vibrating with lethal menace. “You have no idea what you’re stepping into. That is my wife.”

Silence dropped like an anvil over the surrounding crowd. Whispers broke out among the onlookers.

The woman let out a soft, amused laugh. It was a melodic, cutting sound.

“Your wife?” She adjusted the boy on her hip, looking at Vincent with mild pity, the way one might look at a lunatic on a street corner. “I’m afraid grief or alcohol has clouded your vision, Mr. Moretti. My name is Diana Vance-Sterling. Vice-Chair of Vance Global.”

Vincent stared at her, blood rushing hot behind his eyes. “Don’t lie to me! Look at me, Anna! Look at me!”

The little boy, startled by Vincent’s sudden roar, buried his face into the woman’s neck, whimpering softly.

Diana’s gaze hardened into pure flint. “You are frightening my son. Lower your voice, or I will have security remove you from this venue.”

“Your son?” Vincent’s gaze dropped to the child. The boy turned his head slightly, peeking out from Diana’s shoulder.

Vincent froze.

The boy had dark hair. Fair skin. And when his wide, frightened eyes met Vincent’s, Vincent felt as if an icy spike had been driven through his chest.

The boy had stormy grey eyes.