76"Vincent Moretti promised his pregnant wife he would come back for her after their private jet made a terrifying emergency landing. But he took his first love to safety first—and moments later, the aircraft exploded before Anna emerged. For three years, Vincent believed he had buried his wife and unborn child… until one crowded gala changed everything.

The crystal chandeliers of the Drake Hotel cast fractured prisms across seven hundred members of Chicago’s high society. Champagne flutes clinked in rhythmic ostentation. Soft violins hummed beneath the murmur of venture capitalists, real estate moguls, and corrupt politicians.

Vincent Moretti stood in the center of the grand rotunda, his presence casting a shadow that silenced conversations in his wake. At thirty-four, he was broader, colder, and immeasurably more ruthless than he had been three years ago. The dark wool of his bespoke tuxedo hugged broad shoulders, and his silver-flecked obsidian eyes swept the crowd with mechanical indifference.

Beside him, Sophia Carter slipped her manicured hand into the crook of his elbow. Her gown was emerald silk, backless and daring, practically shouting her status as the consort of Chicago’s most eligible widower.

"Vincent, darling," Sophia purred, leaning close enough that her perfume—expensive jasmine—drifted toward him. "The governor has been glancing our way for ten minutes. We really should make our rounds before the charity auction begins."

Vincent did not look at her. He never truly looked at her anymore. "Go ahead, Sophia. I need air."

"You always need air," she murmured, a flicker of petulance tightening her lips before she smoothed it into a camera-ready smile. "Don't take too long. Everyone is waiting for us to announce our partnership tonight."

Vincent barely suppressed a scowl. Partnership. For three years, Sophia had crept into his life, using his hollowed-out soul as an open door. She had been there when the sirens wailed. She had been the one crying in the ambulance while he stood paralyzed before the roaring inferno of his private Gulfstream on an abandoned airfield outside Aspen.

*I’m taking Sophia out first. Because I can get Sophia out quickly and come back for you.*

The words had carved grooves into his brain every waking hour. He had buried two empty coffins in the Moretti family crypt under a gray November rain: one for his wife, Anna, and one for the six-month-old child she was carrying.

"Look at that gown," someone whispered nearby.

"Who is she? Is she with the Swiss contingent?"

"My God, she looks like an empress."

The shift in the room was palpable, like an electric charge ripping through static air. Conversations died down in waves. Men turned mid-sentence; women paused their polite laughter to stare toward the sweeping marble staircase at the entrance.

Vincent casually turned his head.

The air evaporated from his lungs. His ribcage collapsed inward as if struck by a high-caliber round.

Standing at the base of the stairs was a woman in an architectural column gown of midnight-blue velvet. Her neck was long and pale, untouched by jewelry save for a single platinum pendant resting against her collarbone. Her dark chestnut hair was swept up into an intricate, modern twist, framing high, sculpted cheekbones and lips painted the color of dried blood.

Her posture was sovereign. There was no hesitation in her stride. She carried an aura of absolute command that made the billionaires around her look like courtiers.

"Vincent?" Sophia’s voice warbled beside him. "What is... who is that?"

Vincent didn't hear her. The world went deafeningly silent. All the blood in his body rushed to his ears, roaring like a jet engine on fire.

*The walk. The tilt of the chin. The dark amber of those eyes.*

"Anna," he breathed.

The word was torn from the marrow of his bones.

"Vincent, stop!" Sophia hissed, her fingers clawing into his sleeve. "What are you talking about? Anna is dead! You're losing your mind!"

He didn't shake Sophia off; he tore himself away with such violent force that she stumbled, dropping her crystal champagne flute. The glass shattered against the polished marble, spilling pale gold across the floor, but nobody paid attention to the crash.

Vincent pushed through the crowd. Men stepped aside instinctively, alarmed by the feral look in his eyes.

"Excuse me," a tech CEO stammered, but Vincent shoved him aside without a second thought.

"Anna!" he roared.

The woman didn't turn immediately. She paused near the edge of the mezzanine, accepting a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter with fluid, unflinching grace. She took a slow sip, entirely unbothered by the sudden commotion.

Vincent closed the distance until he was merely six feet away. His hands were trembling—hands that had signed billion-dollar mergers and fired handguns without a twitch.

"Anna..." His voice broke into a jagged rasp. "It’s... it can't be."

He reached out. His fingers hovered inches from the bare velvet covering her shoulder, terrified that if he touched her, she would dissolve into smoke and aviation fuel.

"Mommy!"

A high, piping voice cut through the stillness of the ballroom.

From around a towering floral arrangement, a little boy came hurtling forward in patent leather shoes and a miniature charcoal suit. He had unruly curls the exact shade of midnight, cheeks flushed from running, and eyes—piercing, startlingly intelligent, and undeniably gray.

The Moretti gray.

The child threw his small arms around the woman's velvet skirts with uninhibited joy. "Mommy! Look! The ice swan melted a little bit, and Uncle Julian let me touch the beak!"

Anna Bennett looked down. The terrifying chill that had hung over her features melted instantly into a smile of devastating warmth. She leaned down, smoothed the boy's rumpled lapel, and kissed his forehead.

"Did you thank Julian, Leo?" she asked softly. Her voice was richer than Vincent remembered, silk wrapped around steel.

"I did! Twice!" the boy beamed.

Vincent stood frozen in place.

*Leo.*

*Three years old.*

The room seemed to tilt beneath his feet. The child looked at him, those slate-gray eyes widening with innocent curiosity. Then Anna straightened. Slowly, deliberate as an executioner, her gaze slid up from her son to Vincent’s face.

There was no shock in her eyes. No fear. No longing.

Only absolute, arctic indifference.

"Can I help you, Mr. Moretti?" she said coolly.

Behind Vincent, Sophia caught up, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with terror as she stared at the woman she had watched burn three years ago.

"You're... you're dead," Sophia choked out. "We buried you!"

Anna didn't flinch. Her lips curled into a razor-thin, patronizing smile.