d266.The smell of scorched jet fuel settled into the cabin like an invisible predator.

Three years in Chicago had done nothing to extinguish the chill in Vincent Moretti’s bones.

The penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan remained exactly as it had been on the morning of the flight. Anna’s half-read novel still rested on the nightstand, its spine slightly sun-bleached. Her perfume, a soft blend of jasmine and bergamot, had long since evaporated into the sterile air, yet Vincent swore he caught its scent every time he closed his eyes.

For three years, the city whispered about the tragedy of Vincent Moretti. The ruthless billionaire titan of Moretti Logistics had become an untouchable specter—colder, sharper, and utterly devoid of mercy in the boardroom. He had buried an empty casket in the family plot beneath a marble angel clutching an infant. Every year on the anniversary, he spent forty-eight hours sitting in the rain by that tombstone, drinking until the whiskey burned his throat raw, punishing himself for the promise he broke.

"Vincent, darling, everyone is staring. You really should smile."

Sophia Carter’s gloved hand slipped possessively into the crook of his elbow.

They stood at the grand entrance of the modern wing of the Art Institute of Chicago, where the annual Vanguard Children’s Charity Gala was in full swing. Sophia wore a backless champagne gown that hugged every curve, diamond drops cascading from her ears. For thirty-six months, she had played the devoted, patient companion, nursing him through his brooding silence, attending his charity functions, subtly positioning herself as the inevitable future Mrs. Moretti.

Vincent looked down at her hand on his sleeve. A subtle wave of revulsion, familiar and heavy, tightened his stomach. He had saved her life, yes. But every time he looked at Sophia’s face, all he saw was the fireball that had incinerated his world.

"I am here to write a check, Sophia, not to smile for social columns," Vincent said, his voice gravelly and detached. He subtly disengaged his arm, reaching for a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter's tray.

"You've mourned long enough," Sophia murmured, stepping closer, her voice laced with honeyed reproach. "Anna wouldn't want you living like a monk in a mausoleum, Vincent. It’s been three years. We survived for a reason."

Vincent’s jaw locked. Before he could deliver the scathing retort rising in his throat, a sudden ripple moved through the crowded ballroom.

Laughter ceased. Voices dipped into murmurs. The sea of tuxedos and designer dresses parted near the grand curved staircase leading from the VIP mezzanine.

Vincent followed the gaze of the crowd out of pure habit.

Then, his glass slipped from his fingers.

The crystal shattered against the polished marble floor with a sharp, violent crash, sending sparkling water splashing over the cuffs of his trousers. Several socialites gasped and turned, but Vincent didn't hear them. His ears were ringing with a deafening, thunderous roar.

Descending the stairs was a woman in an emerald green silk gown. The dress fell like liquid water around her slender, statuesque frame. Her auburn hair, once worn in soft, innocent waves, was pinned up in an intricate, sophisticated chignon that exposed the pale, elegant column of her throat and the sharp line of her shoulders. Diamond cuffs encircled her wrists. She walked with the poise of an empress who owned the ground beneath her feet.

Her face.

Vincent took an involuntary step forward, his chest heaving, his breath trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The world shrank until the four hundred people in the hall dissolved into static.

"No," Vincent whispered, the word tearing out of his soul. "It's impossible."

Beside him, Sophia let out a strangled, choked noise. Her champagne flute slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the floor and joining Vincent’s in a mess of broken glass. Her face drained of all color, turning the shade of curdled milk.

"Anna?" Sophia breathed, terror lacing her voice. "That's... that can't be..."

The woman in green reached the base of the staircase. She paused, whispering something to an elderly European philanthropist, her lips curving into a dazzling, composed smile that never reached the cool, calculating emerald of her eyes.

"Anna!" Vincent roared.

He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the board members, the politicians, or the high society matrons clutching their pearls. Vincent moved like a battering ram, shoving through the crowded aisle, his eyes locked entirely on the impossible vision before him.

She was alive. His wife was alive. The fire hadn't taken her. She was here.

"Anna!" he called again, breathless, stumbling forward, his hand reaching out across the remaining five feet of open space.

The woman turned around slowly. Her gaze swept over the crowd and landed square on Vincent Moretti.

There was no joy in her face. There was no recognition. There was only a chilling, devastating stillness.

Vincent reached for her bare arm. "Anna, oh God, Anna—"

Before his fingers could graze her skin, a blur of movement dashed past the velvet stanchions. A small boy, no older than three, clad in a miniature black tuxedo and tiny leather loafers, barreled across the floor with unrestrained delight.

"Mommy!" the child chirped, his bright, bell-like voice cutting cleanly through the stunned silence.

The boy threw his small arms around the emerald silk of the woman's skirt, burying his face in the fabric.

Anna’s icy expression melted instantly into radiant, protective warmth. She bent down, sweeping the child up into her arms with practiced, effortless grace, balancing him on her hip.

The boy turned his head toward the crowd.

Vincent froze in his tracks as if a bullet had struck him between the shoulder blades.

The boy had thick, midnight-black hair that fell across his forehead in unruly waves. His jaw had the distinct, stubborn cleft that had defined the Moretti lineage for three generations. And when the child blinked, his wide, inquisitive eyes were the exact, piercing storm-gray of Vincent’s own.

Vincent’s gaze moved from the boy’s face to Anna’s. His voice was nothing more than a broken whimper.