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

Meanwhile, inside the opulent penthouse on Astor Street, Sophia was not sleeping.

She was frantically packing designer suitcases with diamond jewelry, bearer bonds, and offshore account access keys. She was throwing expensive silk gowns into trunks, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

The moment Anna bought that brooch at the auction, Sophia knew the end was near. The look in Anna’s eyes wasn't just hatred—it was the look of an executioner who had already built the scaffold.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Sophia cursed herself, her hands shaking violently as she dialed a private number on her burner phone.

"Speak," a gravelly voice answered on the third ring.

"Granger, I need the extraction package now!" Sophia shrieked into the phone. "The jet at Midway! Is it ready?!"

"Payment first, Miss Carter. Five million in crypto, as agreed."

"You’ll get your damn money once I’m in Mexico City!" Sophia slammed a jewelry case shut. "And the other task? Did your men secure the Sterling suite?"

A sinister chuckle echoed from the other end of the line. "Sterling’s main security detail was drawn away toward the lakefront chasing a decoy Moretti convoy. We have three men inside the Peninsula service elevators right now. The boy is in the nursery."

A grotesque, triumphant smile twisted Sophia’s features.

If she was going down, she wasn't going down alone. If Anna wanted to destroy her life, Sophia would take the only thing Anna survived the fire for: the child.

"Kill the nanny," Sophia ordered coldly, her voice devoid of humanity. "Bring the boy to the Midway hangar. If Vincent or Anna try to stop my plane from leaving, I will throw their precious heir off the tarmac into the jet engine."

"Consider it done."

Sophia hung up the phone, letting out a wild, breathless laugh. She picked up her coat, turning toward the private elevator foyer of her penthouse.

*Ding.*

The elevator chime sounded.

Sophia frowned. Granger’s men weren't supposed to arrive for another twenty minutes.

The heavy steel elevator doors slid open.

Standing inside was not an extraction team.

It was Vincent Moretti.

He was alone. His coat was open, revealing the black shoulder holster. His face was carved from granite, his gray eyes devoid of any life, resembling the cold surface of a frozen lake.

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. The suitcase slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the floor, spilling gold necklaces and diamond rings across the Persian rug.

"V-Vincent..." she stammered, backing away slowly, her hands rising defensively. "What are you doing here? It's three in the morning..."

Vincent stepped out of the elevator. He didn't rush. He walked with slow, deliberate, lethal strides, kicking a diamond bracelet out of his path.

"Packing for a trip, Sophia?" Vincent asked softly.

"I... I was frightened!" she cried, trying to summon the fragile, helpless persona that had worked on him for years. She forced tears into her eyes, trembling dramatically. "The way you looked at me at the auction... the things Anna said... Vincent, she’s turning you against me! She hates me because you loved me first!"

Vincent stopped three feet away from her.

He didn't draw his gun. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned the screen toward her.

The video was playing on a loop.

Frame by frame: Sophia slamming the manual emergency latch shut. Sophia looking through the glass at Anna. Sophia smirking as she ran away.

Sophia’s voice died in her throat. Her jaw dropped. Her pupils dilated with absolute, paralyzing horror.

"The exterior camera survived," Vincent whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence. "The black box was recovered."

Sophia shook her head violently, stumbling back until her legs hit the edge of the glass coffee table. "No... no, Vincent, listen to me! That wasn't what it looked like! The door was loose! I was trying to secure it so the fire wouldn't spread—"

*Smash!*

Vincent’s hand whipped out, his fingers closing around Sophia’s throat like a vice of solid iron. He lifted her off her feet with terrifying, effortless strength, slamming her backward onto the glass table, which shattered beneath her weight.

Sophia gasped for air, her hands clawing desperately at his iron wrist, her legs kicking wildly among the shards of broken glass.

"You locked my pregnant wife in a burning plane," Vincent snarled into her face, his eyes inches from hers. "You listened to her scream. You smiled. And then you slept in her bed for three years."

"V-Vincent... please..." she choked out, her face turning purple.

Vincent’s phone suddenly buzzed violently on the floor.

It was an emergency line from Marco.

Vincent didn't release his grip on Sophia’s throat, pressing his thumb into her windpipe just enough to keep her on the brink of consciousness, while he picked up the phone with his other hand and clicked speaker.

"Boss!" Marco’s panicked voice shouted over the line. "We have a Code Red at the Peninsula! Mercenaries breached the Sterling suite! They took the boy!"

Vincent’s entire body went rigid.

Sophia, pinned beneath his hand, let out a bloody, wheezing laugh through her crushed airway.