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 private screening room in Vincent Moretti’s high-security compound was plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the harsh, flickering glare of the wall-sized projection monitor.

Marco stood near the door, his face pale, his arms crossed over his chest.

On the screen, the digitized, restored surveillance footage from the Gulfstream’s tail camera was playing in excruciating high definition. The timestamp in the corner read: **14:22:08 - Aspen Regional Airfield.**

Vincent sat in the leather chair, leaning forward, his fingernails digging so deeply into his palms that blood pooled beneath his skin.

He watched himself on screen. He saw the panic on his own face as he kicked open the emergency hatch. He saw Sophia clinging to his chest, crying. He saw himself drop down to the tarmac, holding Sophia’s waist, carrying her twenty yards away from the leaking jet fuel.

*Stay there! I’m coming back!* his past self shouted on the audio feed.

Then came the moment that shattered Vincent’s soul into a million jagged pieces.

As Vincent turned his back to sprint back toward the aircraft, Sophia didn't stay where he put her.

She ran back to the side of the fuselage. Her face on camera was not that of a panicked victim. It was cold, twisted with manic, calculated malice.

Through the thick acrylic window of the emergency door, the faint silhouette of Anna could be seen, struggling against the collapsed ceiling panel, holding her swollen belly.

Sophia reached up. With both hands, she grasped the exterior manual emergency lever—the one designed to lock the hatch from outside during hazardous chemical cargo transport—and slammed it down. The hydraulic pins shot into place with an audible metallic *clack*.

Inside the cabin, Anna’s silhouette slammed her hands against the glass, screaming.

Sophia smiled. A small, cruel smirk touched her lips.

Then she turned and sprinted back toward the safety perimeter, screaming, *"Vincent, help! It’s going to blow!"*

Three seconds later, the primary fuel line ignited. The screen flashed blinding white.

"Stop it," Vincent whispered.

Marco immediately hit the remote, pausing the footage on the exact frame where Sophia’s hand was still on the locking mechanism.

The silence in the room was absolute. It was the silence of a tomb.

Vincent didn't yell. He didn't smash the furniture. He didn't weep.

The grief that had weighed him down for three years evaporated, replaced by a pure, terrifying, unadulterated madness. His eyes turned entirely black with a rage so profound it transcended human emotion.

"Marco," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

"Yes, boss?"

"Where is she?"

"She went back to her penthouse on Astor Street after the auction. She’s alone. Her personal security detail is comprised of four guards from the Miller agency."

Vincent stood up slowly. He buttoned his suit jacket, adjusted his cufflinks, and reached into the desk drawer, pulling out a heavy, matte-black custom .45 caliber pistol. He racked the slide with a smooth, practiced motion, chambering a hollow-point round.

"Pull the Miller agency off her payroll," Vincent commanded, slipping the weapon into his shoulder holster. "Tell them if they stand in my way, their families will disappear from this continent."

"Done," Marco replied without hesitation. "And the Sterling boy? Leo?"

Vincent paused by the door, a sudden, piercing warmth touching his chest before turning cold again.

"He is not the Sterling boy," Vincent murmured. "He is Leo Moretti. He is the prince of this city. And until I clean the blood from my hands, Julian Sterling will keep him safe."

Vincent walked out into the corridor, flanked by twelve heavily armed men dressed in tactical black.