Vincent Torres.
The man Vivienne had been thirsting after for years. I had heard her gush about him at dinner parties, seen her try to engineer "accidental" meetings at charity galas. She had been thoroughly obsessed with him.
And he was standing right in front of me.
Vincent Torres. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to command a room. The kind of man who made billion-dollar deals before breakfast and destroyed competitors by lunch.
What the hell was he doing breaking into my house? Drugging me? Calling me by a name that wasn't mine?
"Come in," he said again, stepping aside. I hesitated, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I had already come this far. And I needed answers.
I stepped inside.
The loft was smaller than I expected. There was 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 was masculine. Expensive. Dangerous. Like him.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs.
It wasn't a request.
I sat.
He moved to the bar and poured himself a drink, but he didn't offer me one. How rude.
"Vincent Torres," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. Anger was easier than fear. "How the fuck did you get into my house?"
He took a slow sip of his drink, those dark eyes studying me over the rim of the glass. "Your security system was laughably easy to bypass."
"That doesn't answer my question. Why were you there? Why did you drug me? And why—" My voice cracked. "Why are you calling me Celeste?"
He set his glass down and moved toward me. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"Read this," he said, handing it to me.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
It was old, yellowed at the edges, official-looking, with legal stamps and signatures at the bottom.
Last Will and Testament of Marcus Dante Moretti.
I scanned 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 caught.
$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 stopped reading and looked up at Vincent.
"So?" I said, but my voice sounded weak. "What is this supposed to mean? Some random will with a girl named Celeste? This has nothing to do with me." I stood, the paper crumpling in my hand. "Don't waste my time—"
Vincent's hand shot out, catching my wrist, and to my shock, the touch was electric.
His fingers were warm, strong, and the way he looked at me—intense, burning—made my breath catch in my throat.
"Wait," he said, his voice low and rough. "That's not all."
For a moment, we just stared at each other. I was acutely aware of how close he was, how his thumb pressed against my pulse point, probably feeling how fast my heart was racing.
I tore my gaze away and yanked my hand back. "What then?"
He reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out another document. This one looked newer. Clinical.
"This," he said, handing it to me.
I took it with trembling fingers.
GeneTech Laboratories – DNA Paternity Test Results
My eyes scanned 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 slipped from my fingers. "What—" I couldn't breathe. "What does this mean?"
Vincent picked 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 was firm. "Celeste Isabella Moretti. Daughter of Marcus and Isabella Moretti. Heiress to the Moretti fortune."
I shook 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 said, 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 tightened. "At least, that's what everyone was told. Marcus and Isabella Moretti, dead. And their three-year-old daughter, missing. Presumed dead."
My back hit the wall as I tried, and failed, to process what he was saying.
"The Ashfords," Vincent continued, his voice 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 whispered. "I don't remember my life before them. I don't remember anything before—"
"Before they erased who you were," Vincent interrupted. "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 burned my eyes. "Why would they do that?"
"Because you're worth $2.3 billion, Celeste." Vincent's eyes blazed. "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 clenched. "So they could make sure you never claimed it. By keeping you broken. Invisible. Convinced you were worthless."
The room spun.
Marcus and Isabella Moretti.Celeste.$2.3 billion.
"I turn twenty-five in three months," I heard myself say.
Vincent nodded 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 was dark. Dangerous. "Which, conveniently, the Ashfords have been trying to establish legal claim to for years."
Oh my God.