POV: Ethan Sterling
I rip the envelope off Leo's windowsill like it's a live bomb.
"Don't touch it!" Vivian grabs my wrist, her fingers ice-cold. "Fingerprints—the police will need—"
"I don't care about fingerprints." My hands shake as I tear it open. "She threatened my son. She came into his room while he was sleeping."
Inside is a single piece of paper with six words written in Claire's perfect handwriting: "You should have stayed away, Vivian."
The rage that floods through me is unlike anything I've ever felt. I've destroyed companies. Ruined careers. Made grown men cry in boardrooms. But this? This is different.
This is my child.
"She was here," Vivian whispers, staring at Leo's sleeping form. Her whole body trembles. "In my home. Near my baby."
I pull out my phone, already dialing. "James, change of plans. I need that security team here in five minutes, not twenty. And send a car to Claire Chen's apartment—I want her followed everywhere she goes."
"Ethan, it's almost midnight—"
"I don't care if it's three in the morning!" My voice comes out harder than I intend. "Someone threatened my son. Move. Now."
I hang up before he can respond.
Vivian is still frozen, staring at Leo. Her face has gone completely pale, and I recognize that look—it's the same look I saw six years ago right before she ran.
"Hey." I touch her shoulder gently. "He's safe. Look—he's sleeping. He doesn't even know anything happened."
"But she was here." Vivian's voice breaks. "What if I hadn't closed his door? What if she had taken him instead of just taking a photo? What if—"
"Stop." I turn her to face me, gripping her shoulders. "Stop thinking about what-ifs. Leo is safe. You're both safe. And I'm going to make sure it stays that way."
"How?" She looks up at me with eyes full of fear and fury. "You don't know Claire like I do. She's not going to stop. She never stops. When she wants something, she'll destroy anyone in her way."
"Then we destroy her first."
The words hang in the air between us.
Vivian stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. But we do this smart. No rushing in. No mistakes. We gather every piece of evidence, and then we bury her so deep she never sees daylight again."
This is the Vivian I remember from that one night six years ago—the woman who talked about her mother's fashion empire with fire in her eyes. The woman who wasn't afraid to challenge me when I said something stupid about design trends.
The woman I haven't been able to forget no matter how hard I tried.
"Agreed," I say. "But first, we're moving you and Leo somewhere safe. Tonight."
"I'm not leaving my home because Claire—"
"She knows where you live," I interrupt. "She got into your building, past your security, close enough to your son's window to take a photo. That's not safe, Vivian. You know it's not."
She wants to argue—I can see it in her face. But then she glances at Leo again, and her resolve crumbles.
"Fine. But nowhere public. No hotels. Claire has connections everywhere."
"I have a private residence outside the city. High security, gated property, staff I trust with my life." I pull out my phone again. "I'll have it ready in an hour."
"An hour? Ethan, I need to pack, and Leo will be confused if I wake him up in the middle of the night—"
"Then let me carry him to the car." The words come out before I can stop them. "Please. Let me... let me do this one thing."
Vivian's expression softens just slightly. "You've never even held him."
"I know." My throat tightens. "I've missed five years of holding him, carrying him, protecting him. Let me start now."
She studies my face for what feels like forever. Then, finally, she nods.
I walk slowly to Leo's bed, my heart pounding so hard I'm surprised it doesn't wake him. Up close, he's even more clearly mine—the shape of his face, the way his hair falls across his forehead, even the way he sleeps with one arm thrown over his head.
My son. This is my son.
Carefully, I slide my arms under him. He's so small, so light. He mumbles something in his sleep and curls against my chest, his little hand fisting in my shirt.
Something inside me breaks and rebuilds all at once.
"Dad's got you," I whisper, even though he can't hear me. "I've got you now."
An hour later, we're in my car heading out of the city. Vivian sits in the back with Leo, who's still asleep in his car seat. She hasn't said a word since we left, just stares out the window with that faraway look.
"Talk to me," I say quietly.
"About what?"
"About what you're thinking. Because I know that look—you're planning something."
She's quiet for another moment, then: "Why did you believe them?"
"What?"
"Six years ago. The research files, the photos, all of it." She finally looks at me in the rearview mirror. "Why did you believe some papers over what you felt that night?"
The question is a knife to the gut.
"Because I'm a coward," I admit. "Because trusting someone—really trusting them—terrified me more than any business deal ever could."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." I grip the steering wheel tighter. "My father died in a car accident. Except it wasn't an accident—it was sabotage. Someone he trusted, someone on his own board, cut his brake lines because they wanted his position."
I hear Vivian's sharp intake of breath.
"I was twenty-two," I continue. "I took over a company full of people who saw me as a kid playing dress-up in his dead father's office. So I learned fast—trust no one, question everything, assume everyone has an agenda."
"Even me."
"Especially you." I hate how true it sounds. "You were too perfect. Too beautiful. Too interested in what I had to say. And that night at the hotel was too good, too easy, too..."
"Too real?"
"Yes." The admission costs me. "It felt real. And that scared me more than anything. So when my lawyers showed me evidence that you'd planned everything, I wanted to believe it. Because if you were just another person with an agenda, then I didn't have to feel what I was feeling."
"And what were you feeling?"
I glance at her in the mirror, and our eyes meet.
"Like I'd finally found something worth trusting," I say quietly. "Like maybe I didn't have to be alone anymore. Like—"
My phone rings, cutting me off. James's name flashes on the screen.
I answer on speaker. "Talk to me."
"Sir, we have a problem." James sounds stressed, which is rare. "Claire Chen is gone."
"What do you mean gone?"
"I mean the team got to her apartment and she's not there. Her clothes are gone, her laptop is gone, and her neighbor says she saw Claire leaving in a hurry around 11 PM with two suitcases."
My blood runs cold. "She's running."
"It gets worse," James continues. "I did some digging like you asked. Claire didn't just manipulate you six years ago. She's been systematically embezzling from Chen Fashion House for three years. We're talking millions, Ethan. And it all traces back to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands."
Vivian gasps. "My mother's company—"
"Is basically a shell," James says grimly. "The designs, the reputation, the brand name—all still valuable. But the actual money? Claire and her mother have been draining it dry."
"Find her," I order. "I don't care if you have to call in every favor I'm owed. Find Claire Chen and find her now."
"Already on it. But Ethan? There's one more thing."
Something in James's voice makes my skin crawl. "What?"
"The payment Claire made to the hotel employee six years ago? It wasn't her money. The account it came from belongs to someone else. Someone close to you."
"Who?"
James is quiet for too long.
"Who, James?"
"The account belongs to Linda Chen—Claire's mother. But the account was opened using a loan from Sterling Corp. A loan that you personally approved six years ago."
The world tilts.
"That's impossible," I say. "I never approved any loans to the Chen family except for the acquisition—"
"Check your email from June 15th, six years ago," James interrupts. "You signed off on a personal loan of $500,000 to Linda Chen for 'medical expenses.' Your signature is on the digital document."
I pull over so fast the tires screech. With shaking hands, I pull up my archived emails on my phone.
June 15th, six years ago. Two days before the hotel incident.
There it is. A loan approval with my digital signature.
Except I never signed it.
"Someone forged my signature," I say slowly. "Someone with access to my accounts, my passwords, my—"
"Your assistant," Vivian whispers from the back seat. "The one who helped Claire. He had access to everything."
"He didn't just help her get my room number," I realize, horror dawning. "He helped her fund the entire operation. The drugs, the bribes, the fake evidence—all of it was paid for with money from Sterling Corp."
"And you signed off on it without knowing," James says quietly. "Which means—"
"Which means I paid for my own destruction," I finish. "I paid for Claire to ruin my life and Vivian's life. I paid for five years of not knowing my own son."
The rage is back, but this time it's cold. Calculated. Deadly.
"James, I want every person involved found and prosecuted. I want Claire arrested the moment she's located. And I want my former assistant brought in for questioning."
"The assistant's going to be hard," James says. "He moved to Singapore three years ago. But I'll make some calls."
I'm about to respond when Vivian's phone buzzes.
She looks at the screen and her face goes white.
"What is it?" I ask.
She turns the phone so I can see.
A text from Claire: "You think you've won? You think a few security videos change anything? I know things about that night you don't. Things about Ethan. Things that will destroy him if they come out. Back off, or I tell the world the truth about what really happened. And trust me—it's so much worse than you think."
Below the text is a photo.
A photo of me from six years ago, unconscious in the hotel bed, with Vivian beside me.
But there's something in my hand in the photo. Something I don't remember.
A needle.
An empty syringe.
"What the hell is that?" Vivian breathes.
I stare at the photo, my mind racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
"I don't know," I say finally. "But whatever it is, Claire's using it as leverage."
My phone buzzes. Another message, this time to me directly.
"Remember how you felt so sick the next morning? How you couldn't remember parts of the night? That wasn't just alcohol, Ethan. I made sure you'd never remember what really happened. And if you come after me, I'll make sure the whole world knows what you did to Vivian while you were under my control. —C"
The implication hits me like a freight train.
"She's saying I..." I can't even finish the sentence.
Vivian's face is pale. "Ethan, I don't remember most of that night either. I remember waking up, but before that..." She trails off, her hand going to her mouth. "Oh God. What if neither of us were conscious? What if Leo—"
"Don't." I can barely speak through the horror. "Don't finish that sentence."
"Then what happened that night?" Vivian's voice rises, panicked. "If we were both drugged, if neither of us were really awake, then how—"
Both our phones buzz at the same time.
One more message from Claire, sent to both of us: "Want to know the truth? Meet me tomorrow. Jade Garden Hotel, Room 2847. Noon. Come alone, or I release everything. And Ethan? Bring your checkbook. My silence costs $50 million."