YOUR DAUGHTER SPENT HALF THE NIGHT ASKING FOR YOU WHILE YOU WERE WITH HER,” MY WIFE SAID

Vincent did not move. He did not pull his hand away, nor did he return the touch. He just looked at Sophia’s face—really looked at it—as if the veneer of twenty years of nostalgia had suddenly peeled away like cheap wallpaper.

"A tantrum?" Vincent asked. His voice was dangerously quiet, a low vibration that made Marcus instinctively take a half-step back.

Sophia blinked, sensing the shift in the air, but she was too accustomed to her undisputed reign over his sympathies to recognize the cliff she was standing on.

"Well, yes," she sighed softly, walking around the desk to stand closer to him. "I mean, look at what she left. A ring? It’s so... melodramatic, Vincent. I know Emma had a little fever, and of course, my heart breaks for the poor thing, but Claire knows how fragile my nerves have been since my father passed. To walk out in the middle of the night just because you were being a decent human being and helping someone in real danger? It’s selfish. She’s trying to punish you for having a heart."

"My daughter," Vincent said, each syllable dropping like an iron weight, "had a 104-degree fever. Her brain was swelling. She passed out, hit her head on marble, and had to be rushed to the hospital in a dirty cab while you were drinking pinot grigio on your couch."

Sophia took a step back, her eyes widening in theatrical distress. "Vincent! How can you say that? I was terrified! You saw how I was shaking! The doctor said my heart rate was dangerously high—"

"There was no stalker, Sophia," Marcus cut in, his voice slicing through her performance like a razor. "We pulled the terrace security cameras from your building an hour ago. The 'rattling glass' was a stray pigeon landing on your planter. You knew that before you picked up the phone. You called Vincent because you saw an Instagram story of Claire and Emma baking cookies at home, and you couldn't stand the thought of him having a peaceful evening with his family."

"That is a lie!" Sophia shrieked, turning her fury toward the lawyer. "Vincent, are you going to let your employee speak to me this way? After everything we’ve been through? After everything I sacrificed for you when we were young?"

"What did you sacrifice, Sophia?" Vincent asked. He rose from his chair, towering over her. The raw, predatory presence that had made him feared across global markets was now entirely focused on her. "You left me for a French hedge fund heir the second my father went bankrupt in 2012. You only returned to New York when he divorced you and left you with nothing but debts."

Sophia’s face drained of color. "Vincent... I was young, I was pressured by my mother—"

"And for four years, I let you pretend," Vincent continued, stepping around the desk, his voice rising in volume until it thundered against the walls. "I let you play the tragic muse. I gave you an apartment. I gave you twenty thousand dollars a month. I gave you my security team. And how did you repay that grace?"

He picked up the ledger and hurled it into her chest. The papers scattered across the floor, white sheets fluttering like wounded birds.

"You signed contracts as *Sophia Moretti*!" Vincent roared. "You used my corporate name to guarantee loans! You spent eighty-five thousand dollars on an auction in Zurich while my wife was cutting coupons for Emma’s school charity drive because she didn't want to overspend our household budget!"

Sophia backed away until her spine hit the floor-to-ceiling glass window. The delicate, trembling victim vanished. In her place, a bitter, calculating sneer twisted her features.

"And whose fault is that, Vincent?" she spat, her mask dropping completely. "Did I force you to answer the phone? Did I hold a gun to your head and make you leave your precious wife? No! You ran to me because you loved feeling like a hero. You loved that I needed you, while Claire was too strong, too proud, too independent to stroke your pathetic ego!"

The truth of her words hit Vincent like a physical blow. He stopped in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat.

She was right.

It wasn't just Sophia's manipulation. It was his own grotesque vanity. He had cultivated Claire's independence, admired her strength, and then punished her for it by running to a woman who treated him like an untouchable god every time she needed a check cleared.

"Get out," Vincent whispered.

Sophia laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You're kicking me out? For Claire? She's gone, Vincent! She took your daughter and she is never coming back. You think a woman like Claire Moretti forgives this? She knows what you are. You’re a coward who abandons his sick child for a ghost from his past."

"Mitchell," Vincent said, not taking his eyes off Sophia.

"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"

"Revoke Miss Laurent's security detail immediately. Change the codes on the penthouse. Confiscate the keys to the company vehicles. Notify the legal department to freeze every account associated with her name and issue an immediate fraud alert to every auction house and luxury vendor in North America."

Sophia’s eyes flashed with real terror now. "Vincent! You can't do that! That penthouse is my home!"

"The lease is under Moretti Holdings," Vincent said, his voice ice-cold. "You have until noon to vacate the premises with two suitcases. Anything you purchased with unauthorized corporate funds will be seized by Marcus's team. If you step within five hundred yards of my office, my home, or my family ever again, I will have you indicted for grand larceny before the sun sets."

"You wouldn't dare," she breathed.

"Try me," Vincent snarled. "Mitchell, escort her off the premises. If she resists, call the NYPD."

Mitchell stepped forward, his massive frame blocking Sophia’s view of Vincent. "Miss Laurent. This way."

Sophia stared at Vincent, waiting for the familiar softening in his eyes, the hesitation that had always saved her. But she found only an empty, black abyss. Trembling with pure fury and humiliated shock, she turned on her heel and stormed out, her designer heels clicking frantically down the corridor.

When the heavy doors clicked shut, Vincent collapsed against the glass, pressing his forehead against the cold pane.

"Marcus," he croaked, his hands clutching his head.

"Yes, Vincent?"