Chapter 4 - The Voice in the Receiver
The drone of the twin outboards vibrated through the metal hull for forty-five agonizing minutes.
I lay beneath the rough canvas, shivering from the damp lake air, my fingers clasped tightly around the ultrasound photograph inside my pocket. Every wave that slapped against the bow felt like a physical reminder of how close I had come to losing everything.
Finally, the boat slowed to an idle, drifting into the sheltered cove of an industrial marina near Racine, Wisconsin.
Julian cut the engines, tied off to an abandoned commercial pier, and pulled back the canvas tarp.
“You’re safe for now, Mrs. Veyer,” he said, offering a gloved hand to help me stand. “We have a secure transport waiting behind the warehouse.”
My legs were trembling so badly I could barely step onto the wooden dock.
He led me into a nondescript black cargo van parked between two rusted shipping containers. The interior was outfitted with communication monitors, two swivel chairs, and a small medical kit.
He handed me a dry wool blanket and a thermos of hot chamomile tea.
“Drink,” he commanded gently. “Your blood sugar is crashing. You cannot afford shock in your condition.”
I took the thermos with both hands, the warmth slowly returning to my fingertips as I swallowed the fragrant tea.
“How did Vance know?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “How did he know I was pregnant? How did he find the cottage?”
Julian sat across from me, his expression grave as he booted up a laptop on the console.
“Harlan Vance didn't find the cottage on his own, Eloan,” Julian said, using my first name for the first time. “He had inside assistance.”
My heart stopped. “Cassian?”
“Not your husband,” Julian replied, turning the laptop screen toward me. “Cassian Veyer is ruthless, but he is not a traitor to his own bloodline. The leak came from Sabine Kessler.”
The name landed like a bomb inside the cramped van.
On the screen were digital transcripts of encrypted text messages sent between Sabine Kessler’s private phone and an offshore holding account tied to Harlan Vance.
The timestamps were devastating.
The night before my pregnancy announcement, Sabine had received a copy of my confidential medical records from an administrator at the women’s hospital where I had my prenatal checkup.
“She’s telling him tomorrow night at dinner,” one message from Sabine read. “If he finds out, he’ll never cut her out of the trust. Trigger the emergency at 8:30 PM. I’ll make sure he leaves the building.”
Underneath that was a message from Vance: “The moment she leaves the penthouse, track her vehicle. Once we have the wife and the heir off the board, Veyer’s proxy votes are paralyzed.”
The thermos slipped from my grip, spilling warm tea across the rubber matting on the floor.
She had planned the whole thing.
The frantic phone call. The weeping voice on the line. The supposed intruder at her apartment.
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It wasn't just a desperate bid for Cassian’s attention. It was a calculated trap designed to push me out of the fortress so Vance’s mercenaries could seize me as leverage against Cassian’s multi-billion-dollar empire.
And Cassian had walked right into it, stepping over his wife and unborn child to play the hero for the very woman who was selling him out to his mortal enemy.
