"Daddy, The Baby Went Flat!" When The Billionaire Ripped Off His Wife's Pregnant Belly at The Gala, He Discovered The Terrifying Monster Sleeping in His Bed

Harrison stared at the vibrating burner phone. The screen flashed with an unlisted international number. He motioned to Marcus’s operative to keep Julian pinned to the desk, took a deep, steadying breath, and reached into the duffel bag.

He answered the call, pressing the phone to his ear, but said nothing.

On the other end of the line, there was no greeting. No casual conversation. Only the rhythmic, metallic scrape of a lighter opening and closing, followed by a voice that sent a seismic shock down Harrison’s spine.

"The tea party was a disaster, Julian," the voice said. It was smooth, aristocratic, and chilled by a distinct European inflection. "I saw the live uplink cut out thirty minutes ago. Tell me Veronika secured the Pelican case and the bearer bonds, or I will have to send someone to clean up both of you."

Harrison felt his throat tighten. The voice was agonizingly familiar. It was a voice he had heard at corporate board meetings, at charity galas, at private golf clubs.

"The bonds are in my hands," Harrison said, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. "And Victoria is in my cellar."

There was an immediate, deadly pause on the other end of the line. The lighter stopped clicking.

"Harrison," the voice chuckled softly, entirely unbothered by the revelation. "How dramatically inconvenient. I warned Veronika that the silicone prosthetic had a thermal failure point above ninety degrees. Vanity always was her fatal flaw. She insisted on the hot tea disguise."

"Who are you?" Harrison demanded, rage vibrating through his frame. "I swear to God, there isn't a continent on this planet where you can hide from me."

"Oh, Harrison. You always were so loud, yet so remarkably blind," the caller purred. "You built a technology empire, yet you couldn't see the slow death of your own wife. Don't waste your time looking across continents. Look at the people who stood beside you while you buried her."

The line went dead with a curt click.

Harrison threw the burner phone against the wall, shattering it into plastic shrapnel. He turned back to Dr. Sterling, who was practically weeping in terror.

"Who was that?" Harrison barked.

"I don't know his real name! I swear!" Sterling cried. "I only dealt with Victoria and a handler known as 'The Architect.' He never showed his face to me! But your daughter... your daughter saw him!"

Harrison paused, his heart lurching. "Maya?"

"Three weeks ago," Sterling babbled frantically. "Victoria brought Maya here for a fake checkup to keep up appearances. The Architect met Victoria in the private lounge behind my office. Maya was outside drawing in the waiting room, but she wandered in. She saw him without his sunglasses. Victoria panicked and dragged the girl out, but the Architect told her that Maya was too observant... that she was a liability that had to be retired!"

Harrison didn't waste another second. He left Marcus’s operative to hold the doctor for the authorities and sprinted down the stairs, jumping back into the Maybach.

As the car sped through the rain toward the airfield where his private jet was preparing to fly Maya to Montana, Harrison pulled out his phone and dialed his sister, Claire.

"Claire! Put Maya on the phone. Right now."

"Harrison? We’re already on the tarmac, boarding the Gulfstream—"

"Put her on, Claire!"

A moment later, Maya’s sweet, innocent voice came over the speaker. "Daddy? Are we going to see the horses in Montana?"

"Yes, baby, very soon," Harrison said, softening his voice with immense effort. "Maya, sweetie, do you remember that day you went to Dr. Sterling’s office with Victoria? When you were drawing pictures in the waiting room?"

"The man with the dragon?" Maya asked casually.

Harrison’s breath caught. "What man, Maya? Tell Daddy."

"The tall man in the gray suit who was whispering to Victoria," Maya said, her voice clear and untroubled. "He had a dragon crawling out of his shirt, on his neck. And his eyes were two different colors. One was green, and one was blue, like a cat. He gave me a peppermint, but it tasted bitter, so I spit it in the plant."

Harrison’s vision swam. The puzzle pieces clicked together with the sickening force of an avalanche.

A dragon tattoo creeping above the collar. Heterochromia—one blue eye, one green eye.

There was only one man in the entire Vance financial network who matched that description.

*Arthur Blackwood.*