Chapter 250
Lucas's POV
The quarterly board meeting had run long—nearly four hours of McKinsey consultants presenting expansion strategies that would have bored me to tears if I'd had the capacity to feel anything beyond the constant, gnawing awareness of Sophia confined in Westchester, carrying my child, hating me with every breath she took.
I'd stopped pretending the situation was sustainable. Stopped lying to myself that I could manage Claire's expectations while keeping Sophia and the baby separate and safe.
The whole thing was a fucking powder keg, and Friday's planned meeting between the two women was going to be the match.
But I had no choice. Claire had made it clear she expected to be involved in "arrangements" for the child. And Sophia—Christ, Sophia had actually told me no when I'd informed her of the meeting. One word, transmitted through a screen, that had hit me like a physical blow.
Because she was right to refuse. Right to fight back against this nightmare I'd created. Right to hate me for every single choice I'd made that had led us to this point.
But I couldn't let her refuse. Couldn't allow her even that small rebellion, because the moment I showed weakness, the moment I gave her an inch of autonomy, the entire carefully balanced structure would collapse.
So I'd overridden her. Told her to be ready Friday at seven. Watched the read receipt confirm she'd seen the message and known, with sick certainty, that she was probably crying. Or raging. Or sitting in numb silence while her body continued the biological process I'd forced on her.
My phone buzzed. Bob, my head of security.
"Sir, we have a situation at the Greenwich safe house."
I straightened in my chair, every muscle tensing. "What kind of situation?"
"Medical emergency. The mother—Rosa Cruz. Severe asthma attack, unresponsive. Ambulance is en route but—" He paused, and I heard the hesitation in his voice. "Sir, Mr. Cruz is insisting we let him go with her to the hospital. He's threatening to call the police if we don't."
Fuck. "Where's Sophia?"
"Still at the Westchester estate. She hasn't been informed yet."
"Keep it that way." I was already standing, grabbing my jacket. "I'm twenty minutes out. Tell the guards to let Miguel go with his wife but have two men follow in a separate vehicle. Plain clothes, keep it discreet. And Bob—"
"Sir?"
"Find out what triggered the attack."
I ended the call and strode toward the elevator, my mind racing through contingencies. Rosa Cruz's asthma was well-documented, her condition precarious even with proper medication and care.
An attack severe enough to render her unresponsive could be natural, stress-induced, or—
Or something else entirely.
I pulled up the security feed on my phone as I reached the parking garage. The cameras covering the Greenwich safe house showed Miguel pacing frantically while paramedics worked on his wife. One of my guards stood at a careful distance, phone pressed to his ear—probably Bob, receiving instructions.
The timestamp showed the attack had started eighteen minutes ago. Eighteen minutes of oxygen deprivation could mean irreversible brain damage.
I gunned the engine of my Bentley and pulled into traffic, my jaw clenched. If Rosa Cruz died, Sophia would never forgive me. Would never believe I hadn't somehow caused it, hadn't used her mother as leverage in some sick power play.
And if she lived but was permanently disabled—
My phone rang again. Bob.
"Talk to me."
"Paramedics are transporting now. NewYork-Presbyterian, Manhattan campus. They're saying possible hypoxic brain injury, won't know the extent until they run tests." He paused. "Sir, there's something else."
"What?"
"Miguel Cruz is claiming his wife saw something on her phone right before the attack. A video. He says she screamed and then couldn't breathe."
Ice flooded my veins. "What kind of video?"
"He doesn't know. She dropped the phone when she collapsed. We have it now, but it's password-protected."
"Break the password. I don't care what it takes." I swerved around a slow-moving taxi, earning an angry horn blast. "And pull the phone records. I want to know where that video came from."
"Already on it."
Hanging up, I immediately dialed my IT specialist, a former NSA contractor who I kept on retainer for exactly this kind of situation.
"I'm sending you a phone. I need everything on it—texts, emails, browsing history, every app, every file. Priority is a video that was received in the last hour."
"How fast do you need it?"
"Yesterday."
"I'll have my team standing by."
The drive to the Greenwich safe house took fifteen minutes at speeds that would have gotten me arrested if I'd been anyone else. But I had lawyers for that, fixers who could make traffic violations disappear. What I didn't have was a way to undo whatever had been done to Rosa Cruz.
When I arrived at the house, Miguel was already gone—in the ambulance with his wife. My guards had secured the scene, and Bob met me at the door with Rosa's phone sealed in an evidence bag.
"Ethan's people are on their way," I said, taking the bag. "What else?"
"The father was hysterical. Kept saying 'they killed her, they killed my daughter.' We couldn't get a coherent explanation."
My blood ran cold. "Sophia's fine. She's at the Westchester estate."
"I know, sir. But he seemed convinced—" Bob pulled out his own phone, showing me a screenshot. "We managed to capture this before the phone locked. It was on the screen when Rosa dropped it."
The image was grainy, clearly taken from a distance. But the figure in the frame was unmistakable—a woman with Sophia's build, Sophia's hair, stumbling backward as a dark vehicle sped away.
Below the image, a news chyron: WOMAN KILLED IN QUEENS HIT-AND-RUN.
"Jesus Christ." I stared at the screen, my mind reeling. "This is fake."
"Sir?"
"It has to be fake. Sophia is at the Westchester estate, under twenty-four-hour surveillance. There's no way—" But even as I said it, doubt crept in. When was the last time I'd actually seen her? Spoken to her directly instead of through text messages?
This morning. She'd responded to my message.
I pulled up our text thread, checking the timestamp. 9:47 AM. Six hours ago.
"Get me visual confirmation that Sophia is at the Westchester estate. Now."
Bob was already dialing. I listened to him speak in clipped tones to the security team, then watched his expression remain neutral.
"Sir, they're confirming she's currently in the east garden. Has been there for the past hour, reading."
"Bob, I want satellite tracking on her phone. She has the one I gave her, it has GPS enabled—"
"Already running it, sir. Signal is showing she's still on the property, near the east garden."
I let out a breath, "fine."
But even as relief flooded through me, another emotion took its place. Rage. Because if Sophia was safe, if this video was fabricated, then someone had deliberately sent it to her parents. Someone had known exactly how to trigger Rosa Cruz's medical emergency.
Someone who wanted Sophia to suffer.
I pulled up my recent calls and dialed a number I'd hoped never to use again.
"Victor Ashford."
"I need you to trace the origin of a video file sent to a specific phone number within the last two hours. And I need you to do it quietly."
"Mr. Reynolds." The former MI6 agent's voice was professionally neutral. "I assume this is urgent?"
"Life or death." I gave him the details—Rosa's phone number, the approximate time of the video, the content. "Someone fabricated footage to make it look like Sophia Cruz was killed in a hit-and-run. Her mother saw it and had a massive asthma attack. She's on her way to NewYork-Presbyterian now, prognosis unknown."
Silence on the other end. Then: "That's a sophisticated operation. Deep fake technology, news overlay, targeted delivery. You're looking at someone with resources and technical knowledge."
"Can you trace it or not?"
"I can try. But if they used burner phones and offshore servers—"
"Do whatever it takes. Bill me whatever you need. I want a name."
"Understood. I'll start immediately."