MY BILLIONAIRE EX THREW $30 AT ME WHEN I WAS PREGNANT AND SAID: "TAKE IT AND DISAPPEAR!" 10 YEARS LATER, I SAW HIM ON TV TELLING MILLIONS: "MY GREATEST REGRET IS THAT I NEVER HAD CHILDREN." I LOOKED AT THE 10-YEAR-OLD TWINS SLEEPING BESIDE ME—BOTH CARRYING HIS UNMISTAKABLE FACE—AND LAUGHED. THEN I TEXTED MY LAWYER: "GET THE INVITATIONS READY. WE'RE ATTENDING HIS COMPANY GALA." / Chapter 172 / 181

Chapter 172 - The Ghost in the Mirror

We moved through the terraced gardens like twin shadows, slipping between the shadows of manicured boxwood hedges and classical marble statues.

The rain had begun to fall—a soft, warm Italian mist that muffled the sound of our rubber-soled boots against the flagstones.

Ethan eliminated two perimeter guards near the lemon arbor with surgical, terrifying efficiency: two swift strikes from behind, the men neutralized and dragged into the dense foliage before their tactical radios could even click.

We reached the arched glass doors of the lower library.

Inside, the room was bathed in the harsh, flickering blue glow of eight flat-panel monitors. Rows of modular server racks hummed loudly against the ancient frescoes on the ceiling, cooled by industrial ducts running through the antique fireplace.

Sitting behind a massive walnut desk, wearing a gray cashmere sweater and slacks, holding a silver fountain pen, was the man from the television screen.

Victor Sterling.

Up close, the resemblance to Ethan was chilling.

The same broad forehead. The same high cheekbones. The same line of the jaw. But where Ethan’s eyes held an unshakeable, profound depth born of love and protective honor, Victor’s eyes were cold, hollow, and twitching with the restless paranoia of an engineered sociopath.

He was staring at a digital progress bar on his screen: DECRYPTION SEQUENCE: 84% COMPLETE.

Ethan stepped through the unlocked French doors, his suppressed pistol raised with both hands, the red laser dot settling directly over Victor’s breast pocket.

"Step away from the terminal, Victor," Ethan said.

His voice was a razor-thin blade of steel that froze the room.

Victor’s fountain pen paused mid-air.

He didn't jump. He didn't scream.

Slowly, deliberately, Victor leaned back in the high-backed leather chair, set the pen down on the blotter, and looked across the desk into the face of the man he had been created to destroy.

A slow, sick grin spread across Victor’s scarred lips.

"Hello, brother," Victor said, his voice an eerie, distorted echo of Ethan’s baritone. "You took longer than I expected. Did the French gendarmes slow you down?"

"I don't have a brother, Victor," Ethan replied, not blinking, his weapon unwavering. "I only have an imposter who stole my face and tried to murder my children."

Victor let out a soft, mocking chuckle, resting his forearms on the desk.

"Your children?" Victor sneered, his eyes darting to me standing in the doorway with my weapon leveled at his throat. "Noah and Sophie don't carry your blood, Ethan. They carry the blood of Julian Montgomery. You're just the guard dog Arthur Vance hired to keep the vault warm."

"Arthur Vance didn't hire a guard dog, Victor," I spoke up, stepping into the room, my voice steady, cold, and absolute. "He found a father. Something your family has never understood."

Victor’s smile vanished. His dark eyes locked onto mine with pure, venomous hatred.

"You should have stayed in Normandy, Victoria," Victor whispered. "Because you didn't look at the perimeter monitors before you walked through those doors."

Above our heads, through the villa's internal intercom speakers, a sharp, familiar voice broke through the static: