Chapter 4 - A Calculated Encounter
At 2:00 AM, the penthouse office of Moretti Tower was suffocating in silence, broken only by the steady hum of computer monitors.
Marcus Croft, Vincent’s most trusted operative, tossed a thick leather-bound dossier onto the mahogany desk. Vincent sat behind it, an untouched glass of scotch sweating on the coaster.
“Her name is legally Diana Sterling,” Marcus stated, crossing his arms. “According to the paperwork, she was born in London, educated in Switzerland, and assumed the role of Vice-Chair at Vance Global six months ago.”
Vincent flipped the folder open.
The photograph staring back at him was the woman from the ballroom. Flawless. Elite. Remote.
“It’s a ghost identity,” Vincent muttered, his fingers tracing the edge of the printed photo. “Look at the background. It’s too clean. Where are the high school records? Where are the childhood photographs?”
“Scrubbed,” Marcus confirmed grimly. “Or fabricated from scratch by someone with unlimited resources and high-level government clearance. The Vance family has connections with British intelligence. If Julian Vance wanted to create a new person out of thin air, he could do it with a single phone call.”
Vincent leaned back, closing his eyes. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard. “What about the boy?”
Marcus hesitated. “Birth certificate lists his name as Leo Julian Sterling. Born in a private clinic in Zurich, Switzerland, three years ago. Father: Unknown. Mother: Diana Sterling.”
“Three years ago,” Vincent repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “The crash was thirty-eight months ago. The timing is exact.”
“Vincent,” Marcus said quietly, leaning forward. “Even if it is her… she spent three years hiding from you. She erased her own existence to make sure you never found her. What does that tell you?”
*It tells me she hates me.*
*It tells me she remembers every second of what I did.*
Vincent opened his eyes, the scotch forgotten. A dark, relentless resolve took root in his chest. “Where is she tomorrow?”
Marcus sighed, pulling a tablet from his pocket. “The Chicago Heritage Auction. Vance Global is bidding on the historic waterfront commercial docks. Properties your family has controlled for three generations.”
Vincent stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Register me for a bidder’s paddle.”
***
The auction hall at the Palmer House Hilton was filled with Chicago’s most ruthless corporate titans. Vincent sat in the second row, his presence casting a long, intimidating shadow over the room.
A moment later, the double doors opened.
Diana walked in.
Today, she wore a tailored ivory pantsuit that accentuated her tall, slender frame. Her dark hair was styled back, revealing diamond studs in her ears. Behind her walked two personal security guards, but Julian Vance was nowhere to be seen.
As she walked down the aisle, her eyes swept over the room.
When she saw Vincent, she didn't hesitate. She didn't flinch.
She walked straight toward him, taking the seat directly across the aisle.
Vincent’s pulse spiked. “Anna.”
Diana turned her head, a cool, polite smile gracing her lips. “Mr. Moretti. I see you’ve managed to sober up since last night.”
“Cut the act,” Vincent hissed under his breath, leaning slightly across the narrow gap between their chairs. “I know who you are. I know what Julian Vance did for you. You can change your hair, your name, your clothes—but you can’t change your eyes. You can’t change that scar on your left wrist from the broken teacup when you were nineteen.”
Diana didn't pull her hand away. In fact, she resting her left wrist casually on the armrest, perfectly exposing the faint, thin white line near her thumb.
“Many people have scars, Mr. Moretti,” she murmured, her voice smooth, unaffected. “Some wear them on their skin. Others, like you, seem to wear them on their conscience.”
Vincent’s breath hitched. “Anna, please. Talk to me. Just five minutes alone. That’s all I’m asking.”
“My name is Diana,” she replied coldly, turning her attention to the auctioneer taking the podium. “And I don't give private audiences to strangers with savior complexes. Focus on the auction, Mr. Moretti. You’re about to lose something you care about.”
The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Lot 14: The North Pier Maritime Docks. Starting bid at fifty million dollars.”
Vincent didn't care about the docks. But he raised his paddle anyway. “Sixty million.”
Diana didn't even look at him. She lifted her paddle without blinking. “Eighty million.”
Gasps rippled through the gallery.
Vincent frowned. “Ninety million.”
Diana raised hers again instantly. “One hundred and twenty million.”
Vincent turned to stare at her in disbelief. That was double the market value of the property. “Are you out of your mind? Vance Global can’t absorb that kind of liquid loss on a commercial pier.”
Diana finally looked at him.
For a fraction of a second, the polished mask slipped, revealing the blazing, incandescent furnace of pure hatred burning beneath.
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“You’d be surprised what I am willing to spend,” she whispered softly, her words laced with venom, “just to take everything out from under your feet.”
***
