Chapter 5 - The Boy's Eyes
Diana won the bid at one hundred and forty million dollars.
Vincent didn't counter. He let her have it. He didn't care about the money; he cared about the crack he had just seen in her armor. She wasn't an indifferent stranger named Diana.
The hate in her eyes was personal. It was intimate.
Only a woman who had loved him with her whole soul could hate him with that much ferocity.
As the auction adjourned, Diana stood up and moved quickly toward the private executive lounge reserved for high-tier buyers. Vincent trailed her, ignoring the murmuring delegates who tried to offer him business pleasantries.
He slipped past her guards before they could shut the heavy oak doors, stepping into the carpeted lounge.
“Get out,” Diana said immediately, not bothering to turn around as she poured herself a glass of water from a silver carafe.
Vincent locked the door behind him and pocketed the key.
“We’re finishing this conversation,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. “No Julian. No crowds. Just you and me.”
Diana set the glass down with a sharp *clack*. She turned, crossing her arms over her chest. “False imprisonment, Mr. Moretti? Should I call the police, or would you prefer Julian to break your jaw?”
“Call whoever you want,” Vincent took two long strides toward her, closing the distance until barely two feet separated them. He could smell her perfume. It wasn't the sweet, floral scent Anna used to wear. It was dark, smoky, infused with cedar and amber. “Tell me about the boy.”
Her jaw clenched, a tiny, involuntary twitch that proved he had hit the nerve. “He is none of your business.”
“He is three years old!” Vincent yelled, his restraint shattering. “He has my eyes! He has the Moretti family line written across his entire face! Did you honestly think I wouldn't see it?!”
“He has *nothing* to do with you!” Diana fired back, her composure slipping further, her voice rising in pitch.
“He is my son!” Vincent reached out and grabbed her upper arms.
The moment his hands touched her, Diana didn't scream. She didn't cower.
She struck.
Her right hand whipped through the air, delivering a vicious, resounding slap that echoed off the high ceiling.
The force of the blow turned Vincent’s head. His cheek stung with white-hot fury, but he didn't let go of her. He slowly turned his face back to look at her, breathing heavily.
Diana was trembling, not with fear, but with an unadulterated, volcanic rage that she had kept caged for three long years.
“Don't you *dare* use that word,” she snarled, her voice dropping into a terrifying, razor-sharp whisper. “You gave up the right to call him your son the second you turned your back on us in that cabin!”
The room went dead silent.
Vincent’s hands slid down from her arms. His breath caught in his throat.
The confirmation hung between them, heavy and suffocating.
*She admitted it.*
“Anna…” Vincent whispered, tears finally burning the rims of his eyes. “It’s you. It really is you.”
Anna took a step back, her chest heaving, realizing she had broken character. But she didn't retract the words. She straightened her posture, brushing invisible dust off her lapels, her eyes blazing with cold fire.
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“Anna Bennett died in the Rocky Mountains,” she said, her voice steadying into an icy decree. “She died choking on jet fuel and smoke, begging the man who swore to protect her not to leave her behind. The woman standing in front of you is Diana Sterling. And if you ever come near my son again, Vincent Moretti… I will kill you myself.”
***
