Chapter 6 - The Penthouse Exile
While Luka’s men quietly handled my hospital discharge, settling every medical bill and arranging a private transport that bypassed the paparazzi and curious nurses outside, Julian Vance was living his best life across town. The penthouse apartment we shared—or rather, the apartment I had spent three years cleaning, decorating, and keeping immaculate while Julian worked late—was now echoing with the sound of laughter and popping champagne corks. Julian stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the glowing skyline of the city, swirling a glass of expensive Scotch. Beside him on the white leather sofa sat Chloe, draped in a silk robe, scrolling through her phone and laughing brightly. “I still can’t believe you actually told her to pack her bags while she was still in the hospital bed,” Chloe purred, sliding her glass across the marble coffee table and pressing her body against Julian’s side. “Weren't you worried she’d make a scene? Women like Clara tend to throw tantrums when they realize they’ve been traded up.” Julian scoffed, taking a long sip of his drink. A smug, self-satisfied grin spread across his handsome face. “Clara doesn’t have a backbone, Chloe. She’s an orphan with no money, no family, and no connections. Without me, she’s literally homeless. By the time I get home tonight, her bags will be sitting by the elevator, and by tomorrow, she’ll be living out of some cheap motel across town. It’s business, darling. Winners keep moving forward, and losers get left behind.” Just then, Julian’s cell phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, expecting a text from the moving company or a notification about his bank account. Instead, it was an automated email from the hospital’s legal department—a standard administrative update regarding newborn registration. Julian frowned, tapping the screen to open the PDF attachment. His eyes scanned the document casually, expecting to see his own name left blank as usual. But as his gaze locked onto the father’s signature line at the bottom of the page, the glass of Scotch slipped from his fingers, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces against the hardwood floor. The amber liquid splashed across his designer shoes, but Julian didn’t notice. His face drained of all color, his mouth falling open in sheer, unadulterated horror. FATHER: LUKA MORETTI. “Julian? Babe, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Chloe asked, sitting up and frowning at the broken glass. Julian couldn’t speak. His hands began to shake violently. Because he knew—better than anyone in this city—what the name Luka Moretti meant. And he knew that the nightmare had only just begun.
