Chapter 5 - THE NIGHT DECLAN GAVE UP HIS EMPIRE
Declan made the decision before anyone finished arguing.
“Liquidate the exposed holdings.”
Gavin stared at him.
“What?”
“Move every legitimate asset outside succession control.”
“Boss, that will trigger tax consequences, partnership clauses—”
“I don’t care.”
I stood near the window.
“What are you doing?”
Declan looked at me.
“Removing the reason anyone wants the baby.”
“You can’t remove your family name.”
“No.”
“But I can make the trust worthless.”
Gavin went pale.
“Declan, your father built that structure for thirty years.”
“My father is dead.”
“That’s four hundred million dollars.”
Declan’s expression did not change.
“I know.”
I could not breathe.
“You’re giving it up?”
“If I have to.”
“For the baby?”
“For both of you.”
The room went silent.
Weeks ago, I had watched him announce an engagement and believed power mattered more to him than I ever could.
Now he was dismantling the very inheritance people killed for.
“Why?” I whispered.
Declan stared at me as though the answer offended him.
“Because I don’t want my child born with a price on its head.”
Something inside my chest cracked.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But something.
For six hours, lawyers, accountants, trustees, and shell-company managers were called.
Declan signed documents.
Sold interests.
Transferred legitimate properties into independent foundations.
Gavin looked physically ill.
At 5:20 a.m., Declan signed away voting control of Voss Shipping.
At 6:05, he surrendered his claim to Voss Hospitality.
At 7:10, he terminated an investment trust worth more than most people earned in fifty lifetimes.
I watched.
“You don’t have to do all of this.”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t.”
His pen stopped.
“Amelia, for most of my life, I thought protecting something meant owning enough power that no one could take it.”
“And now?”
He looked toward my stomach.
“Now I think maybe protection means making sure no one has a reason to try.”
I sat opposite him.
“Declan.”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever love Savannah?”
“No.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
“Kiss her?”
“No.”
“Promise her a real marriage?”
“No.”
“Did you love me?”
His expression changed.
“That isn’t past tense.”
I looked away.
Dangerous answer.
Too dangerous.
At 8:00 a.m., Gavin returned with bad news.
“Patrick moved Savannah.”
“Where?”
“We think Chicago.”
“Think?”
“He used three decoy vehicles.”
Declan stood.
“We go back.”
“No,” I said.
Every man in the room looked at me.
Declan’s voice became careful.
“You are not going to Chicago.”
“Patrick wants my signature.”
“That is precisely why you are not going.”
“He has Savannah.”
“We’ll get her.”
“How?”
Declan did not answer.
“Exactly.”
“I am not putting you in front of Patrick.”
“You already told me something important.”
“What?”
“He needs me alive.”
Declan’s face darkened.
“No.”
“That gives me leverage.”
“No.”
“You used me as a reason to fake an engagement without asking me. You do not get to hide me now because you suddenly discovered consent.”
Gavin looked at the ceiling.
Declan stared.
I continued.
“I will not sign away my child’s rights.”
“Good.”
“But I can make Patrick think I will.”
“No.”
“Declan.”
“No.”
“Stop saying no like it’s a complete strategy.”
“It is when you’re pregnant.”
That made me furious.
“I am pregnant, not furniture.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Then treat me like your partner.”
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Partner.
Something changed in his face.
I immediately regretted it.
But he stepped closer.
“If I agree, you follow every security instruction.”
“I’ll listen.”
“Follow.”
“We’ll negotiate.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Amelia.”
“That’s as good as you’re getting.”
For one second, Gavin almost smiled.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
Gavin turned the screen.
A Chicago traffic camera.
Patrick’s vehicle had been located outside an abandoned church on the South Side.
But that was not what made Declan go still.
Another man appeared in the footage.
Tall.
Gray-haired.
Walking beside Patrick.
Declan stared at the image.
“That’s impossible.”
“Who?” I asked.
Gavin enlarged the photograph.
Declan’s face drained of color.
“My father.”
I stared.
“Your father is dead.”
Declan did not blink.
“I buried him eight years ago.”
Yet there he was.
May you like
Vincent Voss.
Alive.
