Chapter 3 - Ashes and Alibis
The private garden terrace outside the Palmer Ballroom was dark, swept by a bitter autumn wind coming off Lake Michigan. Below, the Chicago traffic hummed like a low, persistent growl, headlights tracing ribbons of gold along Michigan Avenue.
Anna stood by the stone balustrade, taking deep, measured breaths through her nose. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the cold limestone.
Inside, Julian had taken Leo back to their private penthouse suite at the Peninsula under the care of two armed bodyguards. She had insisted on staying behind for just five minutes—to catch her breath, to calm the violent tremor running beneath her ribs.
She had spent three years preparing for this moment.
She had rehearsed it in hospital beds in Zurich while surgeons scrubbed jet fuel residue from her third-degree burns. She had rehearsed it while nursing Leo through sleepless nights, her body aching, her heart scarred over with thick, impenetrable calluses. She had sworn that when she finally faced Vincent Moretti again, she would feel nothing.
She had lied to herself.
Seeing him hadn't brought peace; it had ripped the scab off a wound that had never truly closed. He looked older, too. The sharp lines of his face were drawn, shadows etched deep beneath his silver eyes, silver threading through his dark temples. He looked like a man haunted.
*Good,* she thought bitterly. *He deserves to be haunted.*
The heavy glass French doors clicked open behind her.
“I knew you’d be out here,” Vincent’s voice rough, stripped raw. “You always ran toward the cold whenever you were overwhelmed.”
Anna didn't turn around. “If you take one more step toward me, Vincent, Julian’s security will throw you over this railing.”
“Julian Vance doesn't own this terrace, and he doesn't own you,” Vincent said, his footsteps crunching softly on the terrace stone as he ignored her warning. He stopped three feet behind her, radiating a fierce, desperate heat. “Anna, look at me. Please. Just look at me.”
She slowly turned. She crossed her arms over her chest, deliberately hiding the small, silver surgical scar that peeked out near the hollow of her collarbone.
“You have sixty seconds, Mr. Moretti. Make them count.”
His breath hitched at the surname. “Mr. Moretti? We’re married, Anna. We never got divorced. You are still my wife.”
“A marriage contract requires two living participants,” she said, her voice dropping into that chilling, flat register that unnerved him far more than screaming ever could. “The State of Illinois issued a death certificate with my name on it thirty-six months ago. Legally, Vincent, I am a ghost. And you are a widower who couldn't wait to play house with the woman who helped orchestrate my murder.”
Vincent flinched violently. “Orchestrate your murder? What are you talking about? It was a mechanical failure! The port engine suffered a turbine blade fracture—”
“The emergency door lock on my side of the VIP cabin was manually engaged from the cockpit panel,” she spat, her composure cracking for a fraction of a second, letting the molten fury boil through. “The rear hatch where the parachutes and auxiliary rafts were stored was sealed before we even reached cruising altitude. Do you think I didn't read the preliminary crash telemetry after I crawled out of the wreckage?”
Vincent went dead white. “That’s impossible. The FAA report said—”
“The FAA report was bought and paid for by Moretti Enterprises!” she snarled, stepping into his space, her brown eyes flashing like lightning. “You bought the silence of the investigators to protect your company's stock! You had an empty box buried in your family plot so you could wash your hands of the pregnant wife who became an inconvenience the moment your college sweetheart opened her legs again!”
“STOP!” Vincent roared, the sound echoing into the night sky.
He lunged forward, not with anger, but with an agonizing desperation, his hands gripping the stone balustrade on either side of her, effectively trapping her against the city skyline. His chest heaved against hers, inches apart, his silver eyes wild and bloodshot.
“I spent six months in a psychiatric ward after that crash, Anna!” he breathed, his voice breaking into jagged sobs. “Do you hear me? Six months under twenty-four-hour suicide watch! I dug through the burning metal with my bare hands until the fire melted the skin off my palms! The rescue crews had to taser me to drag me away from the fuselage!”
He yanked off his left tuxedo glove, which he had worn all evening.
Anna’s breath caught in her throat.
His palm and fingers were a map of twisted, pink-and-white grafted scar tissue. The tendons in his ring finger were stiff, permanently contracted.
“I didn't leave you because I wanted Sophia,” he whispered, tears finally spilling over his lashes and running unchecked down his cheeks. “Sophia was screaming at the front exit. She fell. Her leg was broken. I dragged her out onto the tarmac to clear the threshold, and I turned right back around to come get you. I swear to you on my mother’s soul, Anna, I was three steps from the ladder when the fuel tank ignited.”
Anna looked down at his ruined hand. For a terrifying, fragile second, the pain in her chest mirrored his. She remembered the love they had shared—the quiet mornings in their Lake Forest home, the way he used to kiss her belly and whisper promises to their unborn child.
Then, the memory of that horrifying click played in her mind.
The heavy hydraulic seal locking into place. The smoke filling her lungs. The realization that Vincent had stepped into the fresh air, and she was left in the dark to burn.
She hardened her heart until it was cold as granite.
“If an engine is on fire, Vincent, you don't save the passenger who walked into your life yesterday,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You save the mother carrying your blood. You made your choice. You chose Sophia.”
She pushed against his chest. He was trembling so hard he couldn't hold his ground; he stumbled back two paces, his ruined hand hanging limp at his side.
“Anna, the boy,” he choked out, grasping at the last thread holding him together. “Leo. He has my eyes. He’s three years old. He was born after the crash.”
Anna reached into her small beaded clutch, pulled out a gold Montblanc pen, and scribbled something on a cocktail napkin. She walked past him, shoving the napkin into the breast pocket of his tuxedo.
May you like
“He is my son,” she said, her back already turned as she pushed open the glass doors to the ballroom. “And if you come anywhere near him, Vincent, I will make sure the entire world sees the security footage from that hangar runway.”
***
