The cool night air hit Serafina like a slap as she hurried out of the Grand Savoy. Her heels clicked frantically against the pavement, a stark contrast to the slow, regal glide she had practiced for months. Inside the elevator, she had almost let the mask slip. The scent of Dominic-that familiar mix of expensive scotch and cedarwood-had threatened to undo six years of fortification.
She climbed into the back of her waiting Maybach, her chest heaving. "The Carlton Hotel. Now," she commanded the driver.
She pulled her phone from her clutch, her eyes softening as she looked at the missed call from Leo. He was her anchor, the only reason she hadn't let the Sinclair fire consume her entirely. But as she stared at the screen, a cold realization settled in her gut. Dominic was close. Too close. He was a man driven by obsession, and now that he knew she was back, he wouldn't stop until he unearthed every secret she had buried.
Meanwhile, back at the Savoy, Dominic Sinclair stood paralyzed in the hallway. The elevator doors had long since closed, but he could still feel the phantom pressure of Serafina's fingers on his tie. His heart was hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated chaos.
Leo.
The name on her phone screen flashed in his mind like a neon sign. It was a boy's name. A child's name.
"Dominic? Are you even listening to me?" Lydia's voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts like a rusted blade. She stood behind him, her face twisted in a mask of jealous rage. "That woman... that nobody just insulted me in front of the entire board! You have to fix this! You have to tell them she's a fraud!"
Dominic turned to look at her, and for the first time in his life, he felt a wave of genuine revulsion. This was the woman he had traded Serafina for? This woman who cared more about her diamond necklace than the fact that his empire was crumbling?
"Go home, Lydia," he said, his voice dangerously low.
"What? But the gala isn't over! We have to-"
"I said go home!" he roared, the sound echoing off the gilded walls. Lydia flinched, her eyes wide with fear as she turned and scurried toward the valet.
Dominic didn't wait for her. He walked out into the rain, not caring that his thousand-dollar suit was being ruined. He needed to know. He needed to see what she was hiding. He remembered the night he threw her out-the way she had clutched her stomach, the way her eyes had been filled with a secret pain he had been too arrogant to notice.
He followed the only lead he had: the black Maybach with the Valkyrie plates.
Serafina entered the penthouse suite at the Carlton, her breath hitching when she saw the small figure sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window. Leo was staring out at the London skyline, a tablet in his lap, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
"Leo? Why are you still up, baby?" she asked, crossing the room to press a kiss to the top of his head.
The boy looked up, and the breath left her lungs. He had Dominic's eyes-the exact shade of stormy blue-and the same stubborn set to his jaw. At only five years old, he carried himself with a gravity that was far beyond his years.
"I was watching the data streams, Mommy," Leo said, his voice small but serious. "The Sinclair stock is behaving strangely. Someone is trying to buy up the minority shares. Is it the man you went to see?"
Serafina froze. Leo was too smart for his own good. "Don't worry about the man, Leo. Mommy has everything under control."
"You look sad," Leo noted, reaching out a small hand to touch her cheek. "Did he hurt you again?"
Serafina closed her eyes, leaning into her son's touch. "No one is ever going to hurt us again, I promise."
She didn't notice the flash of a camera from the street below. She didn't see the dark SUV parked in the shadows of the hotel entrance.
Down on the sidewalk, Dominic Sinclair sat in the driver's seat of his car, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He was looking through a pair of high-powered binoculars, focused on the window of the Carlton penthouse.
His breath hitched. He saw Serafina. And then, he saw the boy.
The child stood up, turning to say something to his mother. In the moonlight, the profile was unmistakable. The slope of the nose, the curve of the ear, the way the boy tilted his head when he spoke-it was a mirror of the reflection Dominic saw every morning.
The sonogram. The "placeholder" comment. The six-year disappearance.
The pieces of the puzzle slammed together with the force of a high-speed collision. The check he had thrown at her-the two million dollars he called a "tip"-felt like a lead weight in his stomach.
"My god," Dominic whispered, his voice cracking as tears he hadn't shed in decades blurred his vision. "Serafina... what have I done?"
He didn't just lose a wife. He had discarded his own blood. And as he watched the woman he had ruined pull his son into a hug, Dominic knew that his battle for the Sinclair empire was over. The real war-the war for his family-had just begun.
