"Buy the bastards some milk," my wealthy fiancée laughed, flipping a twenty-dollar bill toward my ex-wife. I'd thrown her out of my life a year ago after believing she had cheated on me.

For the next four days, I lived a double life that required every ounce of acting skill I possessed.

Every morning, I woke up in my penthouse, put on my designer suits, and met with Richard Whitmore in his corporate tower to discuss the upcoming merger between our two companies. Every evening, I sat across from Tessa at high-end restaurants, listening to her talk about flower arrangements, ice sculptures, and the silver patterns for our wedding reception.

“You seem distant lately, darling,” Tessa said one night over dinner at L’Etoile, leaning across the candlelit table to touch my hand. Her diamond engagement ring—a fifteen-carat rock I had paid for—flashed under the crystal chandeliers.

“Just stressed about the merger, Tessa,” I smiled smoothly, turning my hand over to catch her fingers. “And the wedding. It’s a massive event.”

“It’s going to be the event of the decade,” she purred, taking a sip of her Pinot Noir. “Oh, by the way! My father’s contact at the Swiss adoption agency called today. The paperwork went through faster than expected!”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained an unreadable mask. “Oh? The orphan boy you were telling me about?”

“Yes!” Tessa beamed, her eyes sparkling with sociopathic delight. “A beautiful little blond baby boy. They’re flying him in on Father’s private jet on Friday afternoon! I thought it would be such a grand gesture to announce at our rehearsal dinner that we’re adopting our first child together.”

She was playing her script to perfection. She wanted the public image of the saintly heiress who married the handsome CEO and saved an orphan, all while raising the very child she had stolen from the woman she despised.

“That sounds... incredible, Tessa,” I said, lifting my glass to my lips to hide the grinding of my teeth. “A true miracle.”

Later that night, after dropping Tessa off at her family’s estate, I drove straight to a secure office building downtown to meet with Marcus Thorne and Sam Rivera.

The conference room was covered in whiteboards detailing every asset, every account, and every political connection the Whitmore family held.

“We’ve got them pinned, Rowan,” Marcus announced, slapping a thick legal dossier onto the table. “Arthur Vance’s affidavit was corroborated by the head nurse who was on duty the night Maren gave birth. Sam found her living in Florida—turns out Richard Whitmore paid off her mortgage to keep her quiet.”

“Did she give a statement?” I asked, pacing behind the desk.

“A full video deposition,” Sam confirmed. “She identified Dr. Julian Vance as the person who removed the third baby from the delivery room and handed him directly to Richard Whitmore’s private security detail.”

“What about the Swiss paperwork?” I asked.

Marcus chuckled—a cold, ruthless sound. “Forged from top to bottom. The Swiss agency doesn't even exist. It’s a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands owned directly by Tessa Whitmore. They’ve been paying a nanny in Geneva forty thousand dollars a month to keep the child hidden until the wedding.”

I looked at the photograph pinned to the center of the whiteboard. It was a surveillance picture Sam’s team had taken in Geneva two days ago.

A nanny was pushing a stroller through a sunlit park. Inside sat a tiny baby boy with a head of bright blond hair and familiar, strikingly clear blue eyes.

My son. Julian.

“Is he safe?” I asked, my voice softening.

“He’s healthy, well-cared for, and completely unharmed,” Sam assured me. “He’s scheduled to land at the private terminal at 4:00 p.m. on Friday.”

I leaned over the table, pressing my hands flat against the mahogany surface.

“Good,” I said. “Let them bring him to the rehearsal dinner at the Grand Regency Hotel. Let them assemble every politician, every judge, and every reporter in the state.”