Chapter 7 - The Trap Closes
The heavy wooden door of the cabin didn't just knock—it swung wide open with a loud, protesting groan of frozen hinges.
A rush of freezing mountain air flooded the room, making the fire flare wildly in the hearth. Standing in the doorway wasn't an army of mercenaries. It was just one man.
Alistair Vance.
He didn't look like a billionaire who had just hiked miles through rugged mountain terrain. His charcoal overcoat was unblemished, his leather boots pristine, and his expression utterly serene. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded like a death knell.
Monica stood paralyzed by the hearth, holding Leo so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white. Emily and Grace huddled terrified behind the wooden chest, their small sobs muffled by each other's shoulders.
"Nice place," Alistair said, his voice echoing off the wooden rafters. He walked slowly toward the center of the room, his eyes scanning the meager furnishings—the wooden pallet beds, the iron cooking pot, the clothes hanging on a string to dry. "Rustic. Very minimalist. Though I imagine heating bill management is quite the challenge this time of year."
"How did you find us?" Monica whispered, her voice shaking with rage and despair. "We left no trace. We took no phones, no cards, nothing."
Alistair offered a thin, humorless smile. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, high-tech tracking chip encased in a tiny piece of medical gauze. He tossed it casually onto the wooden table.
"You didn't check the baby's emergency hospital discharge band when you found him in the alley, did you, Monica?" Alistair asked smoothly. "Standard pediatric protocol for high-net-worth families in our private clinics. A subcutaneous biometric tracker no larger than a grain of rice. I’ve known your exact GPS coordinates to within three feet since the moment you picked him up from the trash."
Monica felt the floor drop out from under her. All her running, all her freezing nights, all her desperate prayers—it had all been a game to him. He had watched her struggle, watched her bleed, watched her fall in love with his grandson, just to toy with her.
"You monster," Monica spat, tears of pure fury streaming down her face. "You let us suffer out here in the freezing cold just for fun?"
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"Fun?" Alistair’s expression hardened instantly, his eyes flashing with a terrifying, glacial fury. "You stole the heir to the Vance dynasty, Monica. You dragged my flesh and blood through the filth of the slums and the freezing mud of the mountains. You think this was a game?"
He took another step forward, his hand extending toward the baby. "Hand him over. Now."
