He Chose His Ex In A Burning Plane And Left His Pregnant Wife To Die—Three Years Later, She Walked Back In With His Heir

The chandelier above the Grand Imperial ballroom shattered light across five hundred of Chicago’s most ruthless elites, but for Vincent Moretti, the air had just turned to ice.

His fingers went numb against the crystal tumbler in his hand. The scotch within it trembled, ripples catching the amber glow of the room. Around him, the low hum of deals being brokered, polite laughter, and orchestral strings faded into an ear-splitting hum.

It couldn't be.

He was losing his mind. The phantom that had stalked his nightmares every night for three agonizing years was standing forty feet away, draped in emerald silk that clung to her silhouette like water.

Her profile was etched in gold by the perimeter uplighting. The sharp, delicate slope of her nose, the porcelain skin that used to flush deep crimson whenever he whispered into the crook of her neck, the proud, unyielding carriage of her shoulders—it was all hers.

"Vincent?" Sophia’s voice, sweet and possessive, sliced through the fog. She slid her manicured fingers down the sleeve of his tailored tuxedo, leaning her weight against his side. "Darling, the governor is waiting near the stage. We should greet him before the bidding begins."

Vincent didn't blink. He didn't breathe.

"Vincent?" Sophia repeated, a sharp note of annoyance tightening her smooth tone. She followed his line of sight, and when her eyes caught the figure in emerald, Vincent felt the sudden, violent tremor that ran through Sophia’s entire body. Her breath hitched. The champagne flute in her left hand tilted, spilling expensive vintage onto the pristine marble floor.

"No," Sophia whispered under her breath, terror bleeding through her porcelain composure. "That’s... that’s impossible."

The woman in green turned.

Her gaze was cold, clear, and utterly devoid of mercy. She didn't have the soft, gentle warmth of the girl Vincent had married in a private chapel in Lake Como. This woman carried an aura of absolute dominance, diamonds dripping from her ears like frozen tears. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing the long, elegant arch of her throat—and the faint, silver trace of a skin graft peeking just above her collarbone.

A burn scar.

Vincent’s heart slammed against his ribs like a caged beast throwing itself against steel bars.

*Anna.*

"Excuse me," Vincent rasped, his voice raw and unrecognizable.

Without waiting for Sophia, he violently ripped his arm from her grasp. He didn't care about the governors, the billionaires, or the cameras flashing along the red carpet. The suffocating crowd parted before him like water before a predator. His boots hit the floor with heavy, desperate strikes.

"Anna!" he called out.

The woman didn't stop. She gracefully walked toward the private mezzanine stairs, her back turned to him.

"Anna, stop!" Vincent’s voice cracked across the perimeter of the ballroom, loud enough to draw startled glances from half a dozen oil tycoons. He reached out, his hand trembling as his fingers brushed the cool emerald fabric of her dress. "Anna, please—"

Before his fingers could close around her shoulder, a small blur of energy darted through the corridor from the mezzanine entrance.

"Mommy!"

The high, innocent voice sliced through the tension like a straight razor.

A little boy, no older than three years old, ran straight into the woman’s legs. He was dressed in a miniature navy suit, his dark curls bouncing with every step. When he looked up, smiling with unbridled joy, Vincent froze completely.

The breath was violently sucked from Vincent’s lungs.

The boy possessed the unmistakable, striking Moretti features—the aristocratic jawline, the olive skin, and, most terrifying of all, piercing stormy gray eyes that were an exact mirror of Vincent’s own.

The woman knelt down instantly, her cold exterior melting into boundless warmth as she gathered the little boy into her arms. "Leo, my love," she murmured softly in Italian, her voice honeyed and soothing. "What did I tell you about running away from Uncle Julian?"

"He said you had cake," the boy giggled, pressing his face into her neck.

Vincent stood there, petrified, his hand hovering in mid-air. His knees threatened to buckle beneath the weight of an impossible reality.

Three years ago, he had held a closed-casket funeral. He had buried an empty coffin alongside a baby-sized tombstone. He had spent three years drinking himself to death in a dark penthouse, replaying the deafening roar of the jet exploding over the runway while he dragged Sophia to safety, leaving Anna behind in the flames.

*I’m taking Sophia out first.*

*What if there isn’t time?*

*There will be. I promise.*

"Anna..." Vincent’s voice was a broken whisper, tears burning his eyes. "You're... you're alive. The baby..."

The woman stood up, holding the child securely against her hip. Slowly, deliberately, she turned around to face him.

Her dark eyes locked onto his. There was no joy, no relief, no tears. There was only a bottomless, glacial abyss.