Chapter 4 - The Confrontation in the Mountains
Twenty-four hours later, the rustic mountain cabin Claire had rented on the outskirts of town was completely surrounded.
Inside, the air was thick with tension so palpable it felt suffocating.
The front door swung open with a slow, ominous creak, and Declan Voss stepped across the threshold.
He looked different from the immaculate, composed executive broadcasting on television months ago; his dark hair was slightly unkempt, his jaw was shadowed by a stubble of exhaustion, and his tailored coat was dusted with mountain mist.
But his eyes—dark, intense, and blazing with an overwhelming mixture of fury and desperate relief—were entirely fixed on Claire.
She stood defensively near the stone fireplace, one hand pressed firmly over her protruding belly, her chin tilted up in a brave attempt to mask her terror.
“You really thought you could hide my heir in the middle of nowhere?” Declan asked, his voice raw, dropping into a deep, vibrating register as he closed the distance between them.
Claire flinched, holding up a hand to stop him.
“He is not your heir, Declan! He is my son! You made your choice when you stood on television with Savannah Calloway and called me a civilian to be resolved quietly!”
Declan froze mid-step, his face draining of all color as the weight of her words hit him.
“You heard that?” he breathed, horror dawning in his eyes. “That was a tactical lie to protect you from the Calloway syndicate while I dismantled them from the inside out! Savannah meant nothing to me—she was a pawn in a chess game to keep you and our baby safe!”
Claire let out a bitter, heartbroken laugh, hot tears finally spilling over her lashes.
“You expect me to believe you planned an engagement and a public gala just to protect me while you threw me to the wolves?”
Declan stopped just inches away from her, dropping to one knee on the wooden floorboards despite his formidable pride.
May you like
He looked up at her with naked, agonizing vulnerability, pressing his palm gently against the hem of her shirt, inches from where his son was kicking.
“Look at me, Claire,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I burned half of Chicago to the ground looking for you. I don't give a damn about the Calloways, the empire, or the war. Without you, I was already dead.”
