Chapter 6
“Clara! Are you insane?” Julian shouted over the deafening whine of the idling jet engines. He clutched baby Leo tighter, shielding the infant’s face from the biting wind with the grey blanket. The two bodyguards immediately stepped forward, reaching for their holsters, but Marcus materialized from the darkness behind them, shining a high-intensity tactical flashlight directly into their eyes, temporarily blinding them.
“Don’t even think about it,” Marcus called out sharply, his voice echoing across the concrete. “Assaulting a Vance family member on an active federal airfield? The FAA and the SEC are already tracking this tail number, Julian. Your flight plan is revoked.”
Julian’s face drained of color. He looked from Marcus to Clara, realizing the trap had snapped shut. The board was in revolt, his forged documents were exposed, and his private exit had just become a public cage. Yet, stubborn arrogance kept him rooted to the bottom stair of the aircraft, his jaw clenched so tightly muscle spasms rippled across his cheek.
“You think destroying my company gets you your son back?” Julian sneered, his voice laced with venom as he looked down at Clara. “You’re penniless, unstable, and legally barred from these grounds. Step back, Clara, or I swear I will make sure you never see his face again, even from a distance.”
Clara didn’t flinch. She took three deliberate steps forward into the harsh glare of the floodlights. The floral off-shoulder dress fluttered in the gale, but her posture was unyielding. She looked past Julian’s towering frame, her eyes locking onto the edge of the grey blanket where tiny fingers occasionally twitched.
“You don’t own him, Julian,” Clara said, her voice cutting cleanly through the ambient roar of the engines. “And you certainly don’t own me anymore. Hand my son over. Now.”
Julian took a defiant step upward, turning toward the cabin door. “Guards! Remove them!”
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Before the blinded guards could recover their footing, a sleek black town car tore across the perimeter road, sirens blaring and high beams flashing. It wasn’t police—it was Helen’s personal vehicle. The heavy back door swung open before the car had fully stopped, and Helen stepped out onto the tarmac. She wore her dark blue lace dress beneath a heavy wool coat, her silver hair whipping wildly in the wind. Her expression was no longer aggressive; it was etched with profound, weary resignation.
“Julian, stop this idiocy,” Helen commanded, her voice carrying an absolute authority that made even her imperious son freeze in his tracks. “The federal marshals are five minutes behind us. Hand the boy to his mother.”
