Chapter 3 - The Broken King
Back in Chicago, the penthouse at the top of the Moretti Tower was dark, silent, and reeking of stale scotch.
Vincent sat at the edge of the unmade king-size bed, staring at the small nightstand where Claire’s diamond wedding band rested atop the pristine divorce papers.
He hadn't slept more than two hours a night since she vanished. The master suite, once filled with her lavender perfume and the soft sound of her morning humming, felt like an open tomb.
The heavy mahogany double doors clicked open, and Marcus stepped in cautiously, holding a thick leather folder.
"Mr. Moretti," Marcus spoke softly, hesitant to break the dangerous silence. "Sophia is downstairs in the private lobby again. She’s demanding to speak with you about Noah’s private school enrollment deposit."
Vincent didn't move. He didn't even blink.
"Tell her to leave," Vincent said, his voice a gravelly, hollow rasp.
"Sir, she’s been waiting for three hours. She brought Noah with her. She says you promised—"
"I SAID TELL HER TO LEAVE!" Vincent roared, suddenly springing to his feet and hurling his crystal scotch glass across the room.
The heavy tumbler shattered against the marble fireplace, spraying amber liquid and sparkling shards over the white rug.
Marcus stood frozen in terror. He had worked for Vincent for eight years, through hostile corporate takeovers and union strikes, but he had never seen his employer look so completely shattered.
"Cancel the scholarship trust," Vincent commanded, his chest heaving as he paced the floor like a caged panther. "Cancel the tuition payments. Sell the townhome I purchased for her foundation. Sever every financial link between the Moretti name and Sophia Carter."
Marcus blinked in utter disbelief. "Sir... you stood before the entire board and pledged—"
"I pledged because I felt guilty about her late husband dying in our factory five years ago!" Vincent choked out, running both hands violently through his disheveled dark hair. "I thought I was fulfilling a moral debt to a widow! But she used Noah to manipulate my time, and I was too blind, too egotistical to see how it was tearing my wife apart!"
He walked over to the dresser, picking up a framed silver photograph of Claire laughing on their honeymoon in Amalfi. Her eyes were bright with unreserved trust, her head thrown back in pure joy.
He had taken that joy and suffocated it under a mountain of thoughtless neglect.
"She asked me if I wanted a baby, Marcus," Vincent whispered, a solitary tear cutting a path through the dark stubble on his cheek. "She stood right in that doorway with her heart in her hands, and I told her there was no reason to rush. While my child was already beating inside her."
The phone in Marcus’s pocket buzzed with high priority. The assistant pulled it out, glanced at the encrypted screen, and gasped.
"Sir... the private investigators in Frankfurt just got a hit."
Vincent’s head snapped up with terrifying speed. "Where?"
"A private obstetric clinic in Montreux, Switzerland," Marcus reported, reading the encrypted report. "Claire Bennett checked in under her maiden name yesterday morning for an eight-week prenatal sonogram."
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Vincent didn't say another word. He grabbed his coat from the chair and strode past his assistant toward the private elevator.
"Have the Gulfstream fueled on the tarmac in forty minutes," Vincent ordered, his eyes burning with frantic, desperate purpose. "I'm going to Europe."
