Chapter 5

Thirty minutes later, I stood in the grand foyer of a sprawling penthouse overlooking the city skyline.

Footsteps echoed through the massive hall. Charles stood before me. He was a ruthless billionaire who had secretly backed my late father’s company for years.

He looked down at my soaked, battered state. His dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits.

"Who did this to you, Shay?" Charles asked, his voice a dangerous, low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

My trembling hands reached into my soaked coat. I pulled out the folded papers and my phone, pushing them across the marble toward his expensive leather shoes.

"Terrence and Denise," I choked out, a desperate sob finally breaking through my chest. I couldn't pretend to be strong anymore. "They stole my son. They faked a stillbirth. I have the DNA test... the birth certificate... an audio recording of their confession. Please, Charles. I have nowhere else to go. Help me."

Charles crouched down. He picked up the documents, his jaw tightening as he read the undeniable proof of their crimes.

"I can destroy them," Charles said softly, his thumb reaching out to wipe a drop of blood from my cheek. "I can get your boy back tonight. But I am not a charity, Shay. Everything in my world has a price. If I save you, if I fight this war for you... you belong to me. You will pay off this debt however I see fit."

"Anything," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I will do whatever you want. Just give me my son."

"Good girl," he murmured.

Within an hour, Charles’s estate transformed into a war room. He took complete control, shielding me from the chaos. Elite private investigators swarmed the penthouse. I sat curled on a velvet sofa, a medic stitching the cut on my forehead, watching Charles orchestrate my salvation.

"Terrence knows you are a threat," Charles stated, walking over to hand me a cup of hot tea. "My men flagged his passport. He booked a private jet. He is fleeing the country with Denise and Jiro at dawn. They are heading to a private island."

Panic seized my chest. I grabbed his sleeve. "No... Charles, please, they can't take him."

"Breathe, Shay. They won't," Charles commanded gently, sitting beside me. "I have an elite legal team and the police on standby. We could raid the airport terminal, but a tarmac arrest is too dangerous for a child."

I nodded weakly, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I don't want Jiro scared."

"Leave it to me," Charles said, his voice a soothing anchor.

I closed my eyes, leaning into his strength. "Thank you."

At exactly seven in the morning, the sun began to rise over the city.

I sat in Charles’s private screening room, a warm blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Charles sat beside me, his arm resting behind me on the sofa.

He handed me a sleek tablet. He had acquired access to the live security cameras inside the private VIP airport terminal.

I watched the screen, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Terrence and Denise were celebrating. They sat on plush leather sofas in the luxurious, empty lounge. Terrence popped the cork on a bottle of expensive champagne, pouring the bubbling, golden liquid into two crystal flutes.

"To our perfect new life," Terrence smiled, clinking his glass against Denise’s. "And to finally being rid of that crazy, weeping ghost."

Denise laughed, a wicked, triumphant sound that made my stomach turn. She sipped her champagne, leaning her head on his shoulder. "She is probably wandering the streets right now, talking to herself. We won, Terrence. We have the money, we have the house, and we have my beautiful boy."

"We have everything," Terrence agreed, kissing her forehead.

A uniformed pilot walked into the lounge, offering a polite nod. "Mr. and Mrs. Holls, the jet is fully fueled. We are ready for takeoff whenever you are."

"Excellent," Terrence said, standing up and adjusting his expensive suit jacket. "Let's go."

Denise stood up, smoothing her designer dress. She looked around the empty, sprawling lounge. Her triumphant smile faltered.

"Wait," Denise said, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Where is the nanny? She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

Terrence checked his gold watch, a flicker of annoyance crossing his handsome face. "Traffic, probably. I'll call her."

He pulled out his phone and dialed the number. He held it to his ear, waiting.

"Voicemail," Terrence muttered, hanging up and dialing again.

I watched through the camera as the annoyance on his face slowly morphed into genuine concern. He called a third time. Then a fourth.

"Still going straight to voicemail," Terrence said, his voice tightening.

Panic, cold and sharp, finally set in.

Denise dropped her crystal champagne flute. It shattered against the marble floor, the expensive liquid pooling around her heels.

"Call her again!" Denise shrieked, her voice echoing through the empty terminal. "Where is my baby? Where is Jiro?"

"I am trying!" Terrence yelled back, his fingers trembling as he dialed the number over and over again.

Denise ran toward the terminal’s sliding glass doors.

"Jiro! Jiro!" she screamed.

Back in the lounge, Terrence was pacing frantically, his face pale with dread.

Suddenly, the large, flat-screen televisions mounted on the walls of the luxury VIP lounge flickered. The morning news programming abruptly cut out.

The screens went completely black.

Denise ran back into the lounge, her hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind, tears streaming down her face. "He's not out there! The car isn't here!"

Before Terrence could answer, a bright, flashing red banner appeared across every single television screen in the terminal.

BREAKING NEWS ALERT.

Then, a voice echoed through the terminal’s high-tech surround sound speakers.