Vincent Torres.
The man Vivienne has been thirsting after for years. I've heard her gush about him at dinner parties, seen her try to engineer "accidental" meetings at charity galas. She's thoroughly obsessed with him.
And he's standing right in front of me.
Vincent Torres. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind of man who doesn't need to raise his voice to command a room. The kind of man who makes billion-dollar deals before breakfast and destroys competitors by lunch.
What the hell is he doing breaking into my house? Drugging me? Calling me by a name that isn't mine?
"Come in," he says again, stepping aside. I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I've already come this far. And I need answers.
I step inside.
The loft is smaller than I expected. There's a sitting area with sleek leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and a bar in the corner with crystal decanters filled with amber liquid.
It's masculine. Expensive. Dangerous. Like him.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to one of the chairs.
It's not a request.
I sit.
He moves to the bar, pours himself a drink, but he doesn't offer me one. How rude.
"Vincent Torres," I say, and my voice is sharper than I intended. Anger is easier than fear. "How the fuck did you get into my house?" He takes a slow sip of his drink, those dark eyes studying me over the rim of the glass. "Your security system is laughably easy to bypass."
"That doesn't answer my question. Why were you there? Why did you drug me? And why—" My voice cracks. "Why are you calling me Celeste?"
He sets his glass down and moves toward me. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
"Read this," he says, handing it to me.
My hands shake as I unfold it.
It's old. Yellowed at the edges. Official-looking, with legal stamps and signatures at the bottom.
Last Will and Testament of Marcus Dante Moretti
I scan the document, my eyes catching on key phrases.
...being of sound mind and body...
...to my beloved wife, Isabella Moretti...
...my estate, valued at approximately $2.3 billion, consisting of Moretti Industries, real estate holdings, investment portfolios...
My breath catches.
$2.3 billion.
...and to my only daughter, Celeste Isabella Moretti, age three at the time of this writing, I leave the entirety of my estate in trust until she reaches the age of twenty-five...
I stop reading, and look up at Vincent.
"So?" I say, but my voice sounds weak. "What is this supposed to mean? Some random will with a girl named Celeste? This has nothing to do with me." I stand up, the paper crumpling in my hand. "Don't waste my time—"
Vincent's hand shoots out, catching my wrist, and to my shock, the touch is electric.
His fingers are warm, strong, and the way he's looking at me, intense, burning, makes my breath catch in my throat.
"Wait," he says, and his voice is low. Rough. "That's not all."
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I'm acutely aware of how close he is. How his thumb is pressed against my pulse point, probably feeling how fast my heart is racing.
I tear my gaze away, pulling my hand back. "What then?" He reaches into his jacket again, this time pulling out another document. This one looks newer. Clinical.
"This," he says, handing it to me.
I take it with trembling fingers.
GeneTech Laboratories
DNA Paternity Test Results
My eyes scan the page, trying to make sense of the scientific jargon and numbers.
Sample A: Marcus Dante Moretti (deceased - reference sample)
Sample B: Subject Female, 24 years old
And then, at the bottom, in bold letters:
PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY: 99.99%
Conclusion: Subject Female is the biological daughter of Marcus Dante Moretti.
The paper slips from my fingers. "What—" I can't breathe. "What does this mean?"
Vincent picks up the paper, his eyes never leaving mine. "It means exactly what you think it means, Celeste." "Stop calling me that!"
"That's your name." His voice is firm. "Celeste Isabella Moretti. Daughter of Marcus and Isabella Moretti. Heiress to the Moretti fortune."
I shake my head, backing away from him. "No. No, that's not possible. I'm Anastasia Ashford. I've always been Anastasia Ashford."
"You were born Celeste Moretti," Vincent says, following me. "Twenty-four years ago. And then, when you were three years old, you disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"Your parents were killed in a car accident." His jaw tightens. "At least, that's what everyone was told. Marcus and Isabella Moretti, dead. And their three-year-old daughter, missing. Presumed dead."
My back hits the wall, as I try but fail to process what he's saying.
"The Ashfords," Vincent continues, his voice going cold, "took you in shortly after. Told everyone they adopted you. A charity case. A poor orphan they saved out of the goodness of their hearts." "They did adopt me," I whisper. "I don't remember my life before them. I don't remember anything before—"
"Before they erased who you were," Vincent interrupts. "Before they changed your name. Before they made you believe you were nothing. No one. Just their adopted daughter to use and abuse however they wanted."
Tears burn my eyes. "Why would they do that?"
"Because you're worth $2.3 billion, Celeste." Vincent's eyes are blazing now. "The Moretti fortune. Your inheritance. The Ashfords have been controlling it for twenty-one years, waiting for you to turn twenty-five so they could—"
"So they could what?"
His jaw clenches. "So they could make sure you never claimed it. By keeping you broken. Invisible. Convinced you're worthless."
The room is spinning.
Marcus and Isabella Moretti.
Celeste.
$2.3 billion.
"I turn twenty-five in three months," I hear myself say. Vincent nods slowly. "Exactly."
"And if I don't claim the inheritance by then?"
"It goes to the next of kin listed in the will." Vincent's voice is dark. Dangerous. "Which, conveniently, the Ashfords have been trying to establish legal claim to for years."
Oh my God.