Chapter 8 - The Price of a Broken Vow
I didn't flinch.
“Lower the window, Daniel,” I commanded softly.
“Anna, he’s unstable,” Daniel warned, his finger tight on the trigger guard.
“Lower it. Two inches.”
The motor hummed, and the thick, bulletproof glass slid down just enough for the cold night air and the scent of rain to flood the interior.
Vincent leaned in, his knuckles white against the sill. He was trembling violently, rain dripping from his chin, his chest heaving as if he had run five miles through the storm.
“You’re alive,” he choked out, his voice a ragged whisper. “Anna… my God, you’re alive. You’re really here.”
“Step away from my vehicle, Mr. Moretti,” I said, not even turning my head to look him in the eyes.
“Why did you hide?” His voice cracked with unbearable grief. “Why didn't you call me? Why did you let me spend three years believing I burned you alive? Do you know what my life has been? Do you know what kind of hell I’ve been living in?”
“Hell?”
I finally turned my head, fixing him with a gaze so frigid it seemed to halt the rain between us.
“You call your penthouse hell, Vincent? You call sleeping with Sophia Carter in our bed hell? You call having your mistress plan your calendar hell?”
Vincent flinched as if I had struck him across the mouth.
“I didn't… Sophia was just—I felt responsible for her! She was injured!”
“And I was pregnant!”
The words cut through the night like a serrated blade.
Vincent stopped breathing.
His eyes traveled downward, toward my lap, as if suddenly remembering the horror of that smoke-filled cabin. The realization seemed to hit him like a physical freight train.
“The baby…” he whispered, his voice trembling so hard his teeth clicked. “Anna… our baby…”
I watched him closely. I wanted to see every nerve in his body fire with the agonizing anticipation of what he feared most.
“You left your child in an exploding metal coffin, Vincent,” I said, my tone deadly quiet. “You made your choice on that tarmac. You chose the past. And the future died with it.”
“No…” A sob ripped from his throat, completely breaking the billionaire’s polished facade. He reached through the two-inch gap, his fingers desperately trying to touch my sleeve. “No, Anna, please… don't tell me that. Please God, tell me he survived. Tell me my child is alive!”
“Driver,” I said coldly. “Back up and take the alternate exit.”
“Anna, wait! Anna!”
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The Maybach slammed into reverse, the tires smoking against the asphalt, leaving Vincent Moretti collapsed on his knees in the middle of the rain-drenched highway, his face buried in his hands, howling into the empty night.
***
