Chapter 2 - The Scent of Poison
I sat in the back of the Maybach for three hours after leaving the shop, the engine idling at the curb down the street.
My driver, Thomas, kept his eyes glued to the front windshield, wise enough not to comment on the fact that his billionaire employer—a man who had crushed rivals without blinking—was sitting in the shadows with his head buried in his hands, trembling like a condemned prisoner.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them.
Leo. Maya.
Their faces were seared into the back of my eyelids. For seven years, Claire had begged the heavens for a baby. She had endured painful hormone injections, invasive procedures, and soul-crushing monthly disappointments. And through it all, I had held her in the dark, murmuring sweet, hollow platitudes while secretly having a doctor prescribe low-dose compounds slipped into her vitamins to counteract ovulation.
I had convinced myself I was protecting myself. My own father had been ruined by a bitter divorce, stripped of his dignity and his wealth by a woman who used children as leverage. I had sworn I would never let any human being have that kind of power over me.
*Fool.*
*Arrogant, blind, pathetic fool.*
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, shattering the silence. I pulled it out.
The screen lit up with a photo of Sophia.
Sophia Reynolds. The woman I had convinced myself was my "true love." The woman whose sudden reappearance three years ago had given me the final, cowardly excuse to burn my marriage to the ground.
I answered, my voice dead. "Yes?"
"Alexander, darling! Where are you?" Sophia’s voice was high, melodic, and laced with that delicate, demanding pout she so often used. "The catering tasting for the charity gala was supposed to start twenty minutes ago. Chef Jean-Luc is getting terribly offended, and the board members are already having champagne without you."
I listened to her voice, and for the first time in three years, the scales fell completely from my eyes.
How had I ever thought this was love?
Sophia was an accessory. She was the beautiful, pedigree-perfect socialite who matched the aesthetic of my penthouses, my yachts, and my private jets. But in three years, she had never once looked at me with the pure, selfless warmth that Claire used to radiate. Whenever I came home exhausted, Claire used to draw me a bath, cook a simple meal, and sit with me in companionable silence. Sophia, on the other hand, demanded to know why I hadn't secured the front-row tickets to the opera or why the jewelry I bought her wasn't featured in *Vogue*.
"I'm not coming," I said quietly.
There was a sharp pause on the line. "Excuse me? Alexander, this is the Children’s Hospital Foundation gala. We are the co-chairs! The press is coming!"
"Cancel my appearance. Do whatever you want with the catering."
"Alexander, what on earth is wrong with you?" Her tone shifted, sharpening into irritation. "You’ve been acting strange for weeks. Is it the logistics merger? The European acquisition?"
"I'm busy, Sophia. Don't call me again tonight."
I ended the call before she could reply and threw the phone onto the leather seat beside me.
"Thomas," I said quietly.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Drive to Marcus’s office. Now."
Thirty minutes later, I was standing inside the high-security offices of Marcus Vance, the top private intelligence operative in the Midwest. A former intelligence officer, Marcus was the man the elite hired when they needed secrets unearthed—or buried.
Marcus sat behind his minimalist desk, sipping black coffee. When he saw my face, his eyebrows rose slightly.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Alexander."
"Not a ghost," I said, slamming my hands onto his desk. "A mirror."
Marcus didn't flinch. "I take it you found Claire."
"You knew?" I demanded, the veins in my neck throbbing. "Did you know she had children?"
Marcus sighed, setting his coffee down. "Alexander, three years ago, when the divorce was finalized, you explicitly ordered me to ensure she didn't contact the press, that she vacated the property, and then you said—and I quote—'Wipe her name from my ledger. I don't care if she lives or dies, so long as she stays away from me.' You paid me to stop looking. So I stopped looking."
The cold brutality of my past self struck me like a physical blow. I stumbled back into a leather armchair, dropping my face into my hands.
"I need everything," I whispered. "Every single detail of the last three years. The hospital where she delivered. The medical bills. Her financial records. Who helped her. How she survived. I want it on my desk by midnight."
Marcus looked at me for a long moment, his sharp eyes reading the agony in mine.
"You're opening Pandora’s box, Alexander," Marcus warned quietly. "Claire Moreau isn't the docile, heartbroken girl who walked out of your mansion without a penny. I ran a preliminary sweep when you asked for her location this afternoon. She survived alone. A woman who survives alone with twins in this city doesn't fold easily."
"I don't want to break her," I choked out, looking up at him, my eyes burning. "I want to save them. I want to be their father."
May you like
Marcus gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Then you better prepare for a war, my friend. Because from what little I've seen... to those children, you aren't a father. You're just a monster in an expensive suit."
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