At my daughter’s 8th birthday, my mother told her to stop calling me “Mom” and gave every other grandchild a gift except her—but one quiet phone call that night made my entire family panic by breakfast. / Chapter 27 / 101

Chapter 27 - The Hostage Exchange

The wrought-iron gates of Domaine Laurent swung open with a heavy, groaning metallic screech.

Emma walked alone up the long gravel driveway lined with towering Italian cypresses. The wind whipped her dark trench coat against her legs, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots the only sound breaking the ominous quiet of the valley. Above her, hidden behind ancient stone embrasures, she could feel the cold stare of sniper scopes tracking her every heartbeat.

In the center of the gravel courtyard, parked in front of the grand limestone stairs of the chateau, sat an open-top Maybach.

Standing beside it was Christian St. Clair. In person, he was taller than he appeared on screen, dressed in an immaculate cashmere overcoat, his blond hair swept back, his pale blue eyes radiating aristocratic disdain.

On the table next to him sat Arthur Vance’s personal locked metal chest, its brass rivets gleaming in the midday sun. And beside the table, displayed on a high-definition outdoor monitor, was the live feed from New York.

Margaret Vance was slumped in her chair, her silk blouse torn at the collar, sobbing into the camera. Beside her, Richard was violently shivering, his hands bound behind him, while Victoria stared blankly ahead in catatonic shock.

“Emma,” Christian greeted her, clapping his leather-gloved hands together in slow, mocking applause. “Punctual. Resolute. Catherine Laurent’s blood runs true in you, after all. Though I imagine you inherited Arthur’s unfortunate penchant for sentimental foolishness.”

Emma halted ten yards away, her posture rigid, her hands visible at her sides.

“You have your chest, St. Clair,” Emma said, her voice carrying clear and steady across the courtyard. “Let my family go. Call off your operatives in New York.”

Christian smiled, a cold, humorless baring of teeth. “The Vance family? That pathetic flock of socialites? They are entirely irrelevant to me, Emma. Your stepmother spent the last twelve hours telling my men that she always despised you, that you were an illegitimate parasite who stole Arthur’s affection. Did you know she offered to transfer forty million dollars of Arthur’s estate to my private account if I simply executed you and your bastard child?”

On the screen, Margaret looked up into the New York camera lens, her tear-streaked face twisting in sudden, mortified guilt as Emma’s eyes locked onto the monitor.

Emma didn't flinch. Her expression remained completely devoid of emotion. “Margaret’s greed is her own funeral. I’m here for Catherine Laurent’s legacy.”

Christian’s eyes flared with intense hunger. He pointed a leather-clad finger at her chest. “The pendant, Emma. Put it on the table. And perhaps I will allow your pathetic stepmother to live out the rest of her days in poverty.”

Emma slowly reached into her coat pocket, withdrawing the radiant sapphire-and-diamond star. The midday light caught the multifaceted gem, casting fractured blue sparks across the courtyard stones.