“Vivienne,” he repeated slowly, drawing the name out as if it carried flavor, memory, and judgment all at once.
My voice shook apart. “Please. I’m begging you. It’s Ethan—my son. He’s been kidnapped. They’re asking for a billion. Please… help me.”
A soft laugh slipped through the line. Not amused. Curious.
“So,” he said calmly, “you finally remembered my number because you’re cornered.”
He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like a man inspecting damage.
“I’m in New York,” he continued. “Expanding. Buying. I own more than you ever knew I would. Over a hundred companies. Assets that feed entire cities. Tell me—why should I lift a finger for the woman who traded me in for comfort and gold?”
The past struck me like a blow.
Eight years ago—before contracts and white roses, before the marriage that had felt like both rescue and execution—there had been Dimitri and me. Young enough to believe love alone could shield us. I remembered rain that smelled metallic against the pavement, his hands rough from work I never fully understood, the way he held me like the future was something we could build if we held on hard enough.