Chapter 3 - THE HUNT BEGINS
The transition from a discarded, penniless mother to a woman backed by the limitless resources of Bennett Industrial was dizzying. Within forty-eight hours of Harold’s visit, my mother’s modest Bloomington house was transformed into a tactical command center. Marcus and his team of private investigators occupied the dining room, their laptops humming as they tracked every digital footprint Edward Vance—the man I had known as Ethan—had ever left behind.
I sat at the kitchen island, a thick binder of financial documents spread out before me. My physical recovery was slow; the C-section incision demanded rest that my mind simply refused to allow. I pushed through the pain with a steady regimen of painkillers and pure, unyielding adrenaline.
"He's sloppy this time," Marcus noted, pointing to a highlighted transaction on his tablet. "Usually, Edward uses offshore shell companies immediately. But the real estate market in Miami requires extensive escrow periods. He transferred the money from your joint savings, plus the proceeds from the house sale, into a domestic holding account under Sylvia's name. They are waiting for the funds to clear the maritime broker's escrow account on Friday."
"Today is Tuesday," I said, tracing the edge of my empty ring finger. The ghost of my wedding band still left a pale indent on my skin. "We have three days."
"Exactly," Harold said, walking into the kitchen holding a cup of herbal tea for me. He had practically moved in, taking an immense grandfatherly interest in Lily. "Marcus has already contacted a federal prosecutor in Miami who owes me a substantial favor. But wire fraud and identity theft across state lines require airtight evidence. The FBI is willing to move, but they need to catch him in the act of transferring the stolen assets to the offshore yacht registry."
"We need to be in Florida," I stated, closing the binder with a definitive snap.
My mother, who had just walked in to grab a bottle for Lily, stopped dead. "Claire, absolutely not. You are less than two weeks postpartum. You are not flying across the country to play detective with a man who wanted you dead."
"I have to, Mom," I turned to her, my voice pleading but firm. "He stole Lily's future. He stole dad's rocking chair. He erased twelve years of my life. If I stay here and just let the lawyers handle it, I will always be the victim who waited by the phone. I need to look him in the eye when his world collapses."
Harold raised a hand, gently intervening. "Your mother is right about the physical strain, Claire. Commercial travel is out of the question. However, my private jet is fully equipped with a medical suite. I have a private physician on staff who will accompany us. You will have a bed, absolute comfort, and continuous monitoring. But the decision is yours."
I looked at my mother. She saw the fierce determination burning in my eyes, a fire that Ethan had tried to extinguish. She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat but her eyes shining with pride. "If you go, Lily and I are coming with you. I am not letting you out of my sight."
"Deal," I agreed immediately.
The next morning, we boarded the Bennett Industrial Gulfstream. The luxury of the aircraft was staggering, but I barely noticed the leather seats or the mahogany paneling. My mind was entirely focused on the hunt. I laid in the medical suite in the back of the plane, nursing Lily while Marcus briefed me on the operational plan.
"Edward and Sylvia are staying in a penthouse suite at the Fontaine Resort in Miami Beach," Marcus explained, pulling up surveillance photos on a monitor. "They are living lavishly. Champagne, designer clothes, expensive dinners. They believe they are completely off the grid."
I stared at the photos. There he was. The man I had shared a bed with. He was wearing a tailored linen suit, laughing with a woman who looked strikingly similar to me—Sylvia. She was holding a bright orange Hermes bag. That bag cost more than the hospital bills I had been terrified of paying just a week ago. Seeing him smile, seeing him so utterly unbothered by the fact that he had left his wife and child destitute, triggered a visceral wave of nausea.
"How do we stop the yacht transfer?" I asked, forcing my eyes away from his smiling face.
"The final signing is scheduled for 10:00 AM on Friday at the broker's office in the marina," Marcus said. "We have FBI agents embedded as marina staff. But the prosecutor wants a direct confrontation. We need you to identify him positively, in front of the authorities, as Edward Vance, and we need Sylvia to attempt the wire transfer using your forged identity."
"So, I have to walk in there," I summarized.
"Only when the trap is fully sprung," Marcus assured me. "You will be surrounded by federal agents and my security team. He won't be able to lay a finger on you."
We landed in Miami just as the sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant hues of violent orange and bruised purple. The humid Florida air hit me the moment the cabin doors opened, a stark contrast to the crisp Indiana autumn I had left behind.
Harold had arranged for us to stay in a secure, private villa on Star Island, far away from the bustling tourist centers. As I settled Lily into her temporary crib, I walked out onto the balcony overlooking the dark, sprawling ocean. Somewhere out there, Ethan was celebrating his victory. He thought he had outsmarted the world.
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He didn't know that the woman he had underestimated was coming for him, armed with the power of a billionaire and the wrath of a mother scorned.
I touched my abdomen, the pain dull but present, a constant reminder of what I had survived. Enjoy your champagne, Ethan, I thought into the warm night air. It's the last drink you'll ever have as a free man.
