Chapter 6 - The Desperate Flight to the Alps
Stripped of his corporate authority, with his credit cards frozen and his family looking at him with utter disgust, Alexander knew he had only one play left.
He liquidated his personal emergency cash reserves, bought a commercial ticket on an overnight Swiss International flight under an assumed name, and flew into Geneva.
He was a man driven by sheer, manic obsession. In his twisted, arrogant mind, he still believed that if he could just look Claire in the eyes, show her his genuine remorse, and touch his infant son, he could manipulate her into forgiving him.
"She loved me for four years," Alexander muttered to himself as the Swiss mountain train climbed into the snowy heights of the Alps. "Claire was always gentle. She was always soft. She won't let her own child grow up without a father."
When he arrived at the gates of the Vance estate in Montreux, he was met by a stone fortress surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron fences, surveillance towers, and armed guards wearing formal private security uniforms.
"I am Alexander Moretti!" he shouted at the intercom speaker beside the massive bronze gates, shivering in the brisk alpine wind. "I am here to see my wife! I am here to see my son!"
The gates did not open. Instead, an armored Mercedes SUV drove through from the inside, stopping twenty feet from the entrance.
Two towering Swiss security officers stepped out, frisked Alexander with aggressive efficiency, confiscated his phone and passport, and motioned for him to follow them through a side pedestrian entrance.
They led him across manicured stone courtyards and through towering arched corridors lined with ancient oil paintings and medieval tapestries, leading straight to a vast glass conservatory overlooking the snowy peaks of Mount Blanc.
Sitting at a marble table in the center of the conservatory was Claire.
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She was dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit, her blonde hair swept back into an elegant chignon, her skin glowing with vibrant health and peace. Beside her, resting in a vintage wooden cradle crafted from dark walnut, slept baby Leo.
And standing behind Claire’s chair, like a towering gargoyle guarding an empress, stood Lord Alistair Vance, his piercing gray eyes locking onto Alexander with murderous contempt.
