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

Vincent felt as though someone had driven a rusted blade between his ribs.

"Anna, don't do this," he choked out, stepping closer, his hands rising instinctively as if reaching for something made of spun glass. "It’s me. It’s Vincent."

The boy, Leo, nestled closer into her shoulder, wrapping small arms around her neck. He eyed Vincent with a child’s quiet curiosity, entirely unbothered by the towering, dangerous man who looked so much like him.

The woman didn't flinch. Her eyebrow arched with cool disdain. "You have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Helena Vance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you are frightening my son."

"Your name is Anna Bennett Moretti!" Vincent’s roar shattered the nearby conversations. Several private security guards immediately shifted their stances, hands resting on their holstered weapons under their jackets.

Behind Vincent, the sharp click of high heels approached. Sophia hurried over, her face pale, her knuckles white as she gripped her designer clutch like a shield.

"Vincent, please," Sophia pleaded, her voice trembling with an anxiety that bordered on hysteria. "Everyone is watching. You’re causing a scene. She... she just looks like her. Anna died. We saw the wreckage. The dental records, the DNA fragments—it was all confirmed!"

At the sound of Sophia’s voice, the woman’s gaze shifted.

For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. The woman looked at Sophia Carter. A cold, razor-thin smile touched her lips—a smile so lethal that Sophia took an involuntary step back, clutching Vincent’s sleeve again.

"Ah," the woman whispered smoothly. "Miss Sophia Carter. Still clutching onto what isn't yours, I see. Some things never change, even after three years."

Vincent’s eyes widened. "Anna! You know who she is!"

Before Vincent could touch her, a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder with immense force.

"Step back from my wife and son, Moretti."

Vincent spun around, his jaw clenched, ready to break the jaw of whoever dared lay a hand on him. But the man standing before him was not an ordinary bodyguard.

It was Julian Sterling.

Julian was an international shipping magnate whose wealth rivaled the Moretti dynasty, a man known in underground European circles as a ruthless ghost who traded in arms and political leverage. Julian was tall, impeccably tailored, with sharp, calculating eyes that met Vincent’s fiery glare with absolute contempt.

Julian gently rested his hand on the small of Anna’s back, a possessive, natural gesture that made Vincent’s blood run red-hot with rage.

"Your wife?" Vincent growled, his fists curling so tight his knuckles cracked. "She is *my* wife. The law recognizes her as Anna Moretti!"

"The law recognizes Anna Moretti as dead, declared posthumously three years ago in an aviation disaster caused by negligence," Julian replied evenly, his voice carrying the authority of a judge handing down an execution. "This is Helena Sterling, Countess of Westmorland. And you are trespassing on our personal space."

"You took my wife?" Vincent stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over Julian, but Julian didn't flinch.

"I took nothing," Julian whispered coldly, leaning in so only Vincent could hear. "I merely pulled what was left of her out of the burning wreckage your cowardice left behind. When a man discards his treasure to save garbage, he doesn't get to complain when someone else gives it a crown."

Vincent lunged forward, but two massive men in gray suits stepped between them, effectively cutting him off.

"Mommy, let's go," little Leo whispered, burying his face in Helena’s neck. "The loud man is scary."

*The loud man.*

The words gutted Vincent worse than a bullet ever could. His own son—the child he had mourned with bottles of bourbon on cold bathroom floors—looked at him and saw a monster.

Anna didn't look at Vincent again. She turned her back, letting Julian escort her up the mezzanine stairs toward the private VIP suites. Her emerald dress swayed with lethal elegance, leaving only the scent of white gardenias and subtle ash hanging in the air.

Vincent stood frozen in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by murmuring spectators.

Sophia grabbed his arm, her nails digging painfully through the fabric of his sleeve. "Vincent, we have to leave. She’s an imposter. Julian Sterling is playing a game to destabilize the Moretti shipping contracts! It's a psychological attack!"

Vincent turned his head slowly. For the first time in three years, he looked at Sophia not with the protective warmth of his first love, but with the terrifying clarity of a predator waking from a deep sleep.

"She had a skin graft on her collarbone, Sophia," Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, and deadly quiet.

"That... that could be anything!"

"And the boy," Vincent continued, stepping out of her hold. "He has my eyes. He has my blood."

He walked away from her, leaving Sophia standing alone under the harsh glare of the chandelier, her face drained of all color.

Vincent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his encrypted phone. He dialed a number he rarely used unless someone needed to be erased.

"Marco," Vincent spoke as soon as the line clicked.

"Boss?"

"Cancel every flight out of Chicago. Shut down the private runways. I want round-the-clock surveillance on Julian Sterling’s suite at the Peninsula. And get me the best forensic team in the country."

Vincent paused, his breath hitching as he remembered the boy’s soft curls.