He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

Paris was raining. Of course it was raining.

I hated this city. It was a place built for poets and weak men, but Aria had insisted.

She claimed the doctors in Como were "scary." She said she needed the absolute best specialists in France to handle the "complication."

I watched her from the other side of the limo. She was scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, popping her gum with a rhythmic, wet smack.

She certainly didn't look like a woman who had nearly miscarried twins less than twenty-four hours ago.

"This hotel sucks," she said, not bothering to look up from her screen. "It's old."

"It's the Ritz, Aria," I snapped, my patience already fraying. "It's not old. It's historic."

We pulled up to the grand entrance, and the doorman stepped forward to open the door.

Aria stepped out, and I flinched. She was wearing velour sweatpants with the word JUICY emblazoned across the ass in glittering rhinestones.

The doorman sneered. I saw it instantly-a micro-expression of pure disgust.

I shoved a hundred-euro note into his gloved hand.

"Wipe that look off your face," I growled, my voice low and dangerous.

He paled and bowed deeply. "Yes, Monsieur."

We walked into the lobby. It was elegant, hushed, and smelling of expensive lilies. Then Aria's voice cut through the silence like a chainsaw.

"Oh my god, look at that chandelier! It's huge!"

She pointed a manicured finger upward. People turned to stare.

Heat crept up my neck. It wasn't desire. It was shame.

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, and I saw Catarina.

She would have walked in here like she owned the deed to the building. She would have spoken flawless French to the concierge. She would have been invisible and unforgettable all at the same time.

"Alex!" Aria tugged sharply on my sleeve. "I'm hungry. I want a burger."

"We are in Paris, Aria," I said, pulling my arm away. "Eat a croissant."

I checked my phone. No texts.

I had messaged Cat the moment we landed: Landed safely. Meeting went long. Staying the night.

No reply.

Usually, she replied instantly. Okay. Be safe.

Today, nothing but a black screen.

Frowning, I dialed the penthouse landline.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Maybe she was out. Maybe she was shopping.

I tried her cell next.

The automated voice was immediate and final: "We're sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I stopped walking. The phone felt suddenly heavy, like a lead weight in my hand.

Disconnected? That was impossible. I paid the bill myself.

I tried again.

"No longer in service."

A cold drop of sweat rolled down my spine. It wasn't panic yet. It was just a vibration. A sense of wrongness.

I opened my email and typed a message to her secure private server.

Cat, call me. Phone isn't working.

I hit send.

Immediately, a notification popped up: Delivery Failure. Recipient Address Rejected.

Address rejected?

I stood frozen in the middle of the lobby. In the background, Aria was arguing loudly with the receptionist about the Wi-Fi password, but the sound seemed to come from underwater.

My world started to spin.

She hadn't just turned off her phone. She had deleted it. She had deleted the email. She had deleted... herself.

"Alex?" Aria whined. "Are you listening to me?"

I looked at her. Her mouth was moving, complaining about the thread count of the sheets, but I couldn't hear her.

All I could hear was the silence coming from New York. The deafening silence where my wife used to be.

I dialed the penthouse security desk.

"Pick up," I whispered roughly. "Pick up."

"Hello?" the guard answered.

"Is Mrs. DeLuca there?" I asked. My voice was tight, unfamiliar to my own ears.

"No, sir," the guard said.

"She left yesterday."

"Left?" I gripped the phone tighter. "Left where?"

"She took a bag, sir. She said she was going..."

"Going where?" I roared, causing heads to turn in the lobby.

"She didn't say, sir. But the cleaners came this morning."

"Cleaners?"

"Yes, sir. Don Donato sent them. They cleared out her closet."

The phone slipped from my hand. It hit the marble floor with a sharp crack.

Cleared out.

She wasn't shopping. She wasn't mad.

She was gone.

And for the first time in my life, I didn't know where my possession was.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced my chest. It wasn't the fear of losing an asset.

It was the terror of a man waking up in a room with no doors.