Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Black Car
A sleek, midnight-black sedan sat idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the afternoon glare like dark obsidian.
Camille felt her breath hitch in her throat. Her mind raced, calculating her options. The kitchen door was behind her, but she knew she couldn't outrun two trained men in heels. Her phone was on the kitchen counter, five feet out of reach.
"I don't know where Trevor is," Camille said, keeping her voice as steady as she could muster. "He left last night. We are not married. I have nothing to do with his debts."
"Mr. Moretti prefers to discuss that in person," the taller man replied smoothly. He didn't draw a weapon, nor did he raise his voice. His power lay in the absolute certainty that she had no choice. "Please, Miss Hunt. Don't make this complicated. The boss requested your presence, not your harm."
Camille looked down at the leather notebook in her hand, then at the open door. Realization washed over her with the cold sharpness of ice water. Trevor hadn't just run from her and the pregnancy. He had run from them. And by leaving her behind in the house they shared, he had left her as collateral.
"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll talk to him. But if you touch me, my father will have the entire federal district attorney's office on this ranch before nightfall."
The taller man offered a brief, ghost of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Your father is an attorney, Miss Hunt. Mr. Moretti owns the judges who hear his cases. Step outside."
Camille walked out of her home, leaving the door standing open behind her. She climbed into the back seat of the black car. The air inside smelled of expensive leather, tobacco, and a faint hint of cedar wood.
The drive was silent. The city melted away, replacing suburban streets with tree-lined private roads that wound deep into the hills overlooking the river. They passed through a massive wrought-iron gate guarded by armed security personnel, ascending a winding driveway toward a sprawling, gothic-style stone estate that looked more like a fortress than a residence.
When the car stopped, the driver opened her door.
"Follow me," he said.
Camille was led through double mahogany doors into a vast foyer with marble floors and vaulted ceilings. Paintings that looked like museum originals hung along the walls, lit by soft, warm gallery lights. It was opulent, quiet, and suffocatingly grand.
At the end of a long hallway lined with bookshelves, they stopped outside a pair of dark oak doors. The guard knocked twice, then pushed them open without waiting for a response.
"Miss Hunt is here, boss."
Camille stepped into the room. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and rich coffee.
Behind a massive executive desk made of reclaimed walnut sat a man. He was younger than she had expected—perhaps late thirties—with sharp, angular features, dark thick hair swept back, and eyes as cold and grey as a winter sea. He wore a charcoal-grey suit without a tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.
Valentin Moretti.
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He did not stand immediately. He simply sat, his long fingers folded over a leather folder, looking at her with a quiet, penetrating intensity that made her feel as though he could see straight through her skin to the pounding of her heart.
"Miss Hunt," Valentin said. His voice was low, smooth, and possessed a rich, dark timber that vibrated softly in the quiet room. "You are remarkably calm for a woman whose fiancé just abandoned her on her wedding morning."
