chapter 110
Elena's POV:
"Alone, Elena. If I see even one of your husband's guard dogs, the deal's off. You'll never know what really happened to your mother."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from swaying.
The line went dead.
The phone slipped from my trembling fingers, clattering against the marble countertop as Vivienne's poisonous words echoed in my mind.
Your mother isn't dead—she's just been... relocated.
My chest constricted, each breath fighting against the weight of a hope I couldn't afford to feel. Years of grief, of accepting the finality of death, and now this viper dared to suggest it had all been a lie?
I pressed both palms flat against the cool granite, grounding myself in its solidity while my thoughts spiraled into chaos.
What if everything Vivienne said was true?
The thought crept in like water through a crack, impossible to stop once it started.
My mother's face swam before me—those gentle hands, that warm smile, the way she'd hum while painting. If there was even the slightest chance she was alive...
But then the baby kicked, hard enough to make me gasp, and reality crashed back.
No. I stopped myself. I couldn't afford to be reckless.
With shaking fingers, I pulled up Marcus's contact instead. He answered on the first ring.
"Mrs. Vane? Is everything alright?"
"Vivienne called." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "She claims... she says my mother might be alive. And she wants to see me."
Silence. Then: "Where is she now? "
"She wanted me to meet her at the abandoned Rothfield complex. Third floor, east wing." I pressed my free hand against my belly, feeling the baby settle. "I didn't go, Marcus. "
"Good." The relief in his voice was palpable. "That's very good, Mrs. Vane. I'm mobilizing teams now. We'll have the complex surrounded within fifteen minutes."
"She mentioned something," I added quickly, "about my mother. Don't push her too hard—it would be best if we could get her to talk."
"Understood. We'll be careful." A pause. "Mrs. Vane, I'll update you as soon as we have her."
After he hung up, I sank onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow against my chest. The penthouse felt suffocatingly quiet, every tick of the clock stretching into eternity.
An hour passed. Then two. I paced the length of the living room, occasionally pausing to stare at my phone, willing it to ring.
The baby had settled into that heavy stillness that came in the evening, and I found myself talking to her—or him—in a low murmur.
"Your grandmother was an artist," I said, one hand making slow circles on my belly. "She painted the most beautiful landscapes. She would have loved you so much."
My phone finally rang, and I nearly dropped it in my haste to answer.
"Mrs. Vane?" The voice was official, crisp. "This is Detective Morrison with the SVPD. We have Vivienne Sterling in custody."
My knees went weak with relief.
"Can I... can I talk to her?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "There are things I need to ask her. About my mother."
A long pause. I could practically hear the detective weighing protocol against human compassion.
"That's highly irregular, Mrs. Vane..."
"Please." I gripped the phone tighter. "She might have information about whether my mother is really dead. I need to know."
Another pause, then a sigh. "If you can get here within the hour, I can arrange a brief supervised meeting. After that, she'll be transferred to the county facility to await trial."
"I'm leaving right now," I promised.
I quickly pulled on my coat as I walked out, speaking to the bodyguards stationed there. "I need to go to the police station. They've arrested Vivienne Sterling."
The two men exchanged uncertain glances. "Mrs. Vane," the taller one said carefully, "we're under orders not to leave our posts. Perhaps we should wait for Marcus to—"
"There's no time left." I interrupted, my voice rising with urgency. "Please, you can come with me. "
They must have heard the desperation in my voice because after another shared look, the taller one pulled out his phone. "Let me update Marcus."
Then we were in the elevator heading down to the garage, my heart hammering with each floor we descended.
While we are on the road.
"Can we go any faster?" I asked the driver, my fingers drumming anxiously against my thigh.
"I'll do my best, Mrs. Vane," he replied, skillfully weaving between cars.
That's when I heard it—a voice cutting through the traffic noise, unmistakably Sebastian's.
But that was impossible. My mind had to be playing tricks on me. He wasn't supposed to land until seven o'clock.
I twisted in my seat to look back and gasped. A black sports car was weaving aggressively through traffic behind us, and through the lowered window, I could see Sebastian's face, his expression wild with something between fury and terror.
"Stop," I breathed, then louder, "Stop the car! Pull over!"
"Mrs. Vane?" The bodyguard in the passenger seat turned to look at me, confused.
"Pull over now!"
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and began to ease toward the side of the road. But as we slowed, movement in my peripheral vision made me turn. A massive delivery truck was barreling toward us from the side street, showing no signs of slowing, its trajectory aimed directly at our vehicle.
Time seemed to crystallize.
I threw my arms around my belly, curling forward as much as the seatbelt would allow, and squeezed my eyes shut. This is it, I thought with startling clarity. We're going to die here, my baby and I, and Sebastian will watch it happen.
The impact I braced for never came.
Instead, there was a deafening crash of metal on metal, the screech of tires, and the acrid smell of burning rubber.
My eyes flew open to see Sebastian's sports car slammed sideways into the truck, having thrown itself between us and certain death. The truck's momentum carried both vehicles past us in a grinding, spark-throwing slide that ended with Sebastian's car crumpled against a street barrier.
"Sebastian!" The scream tore from my throat as I fumbled with my seatbelt.