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CHAPTER 3: FINDING MY SON

It took Marcus three days to track down the truth. When he called me to a private office outside Manhattan, his expression was grave. "I found him, Victoria. Your son. But you need to prepare yourself."

My heart raced, desperate. "Where is he?"

Marcus handed me a file. Inside were photos that made my blood run cold. A small boy, maybe four years old, with my dark hair and green eyes. But those eyes were hollow, haunted. His small body was covered in bruises and scars that no child should ever bear.

"His name is Alexander," Marcus said quietly, his voice breaking. "Ryan gave him to Amber four years ago, told her to place him with a good family abroad. She dumped him in a trafficking ring instead. Victoria, the things they did to him—" He couldn't finish.

I couldn't breathe. Rage consumed me, demanding justice, demanding vengeance. "Take me to him. Now."

The trafficking operation was operating out of an abandoned warehouse district, a lawless place where criminals gathered. Marcus had already assembled a team from our private security firm. "We go in fast and quiet," he instructed his team. "Get the boy and get out."

But the moment we arrived at the location, something inside me snapped. I went in first, moving with a power I'd never felt before. The traffickers never stood a chance.

I tore through them like they were nothing, my self-defense training and fury combining into lethal precision. I was faster and more brutal than I'd ever been. The criminals scattered in terror, but I hunted down every single one who had touched my child.

Marcus and his men could only watch in shock as I demolished the operation. When the last man fell, unconscious on the concrete, I stood there, breathing hard. Then I saw him.

A small figure huddled in a cage barely big enough for a dog. My son. My Alexander.

I ran to the cage, my hands shaking as I tore the lock apart with a crowbar, the metal biting into my palms. I didn't care about the pain. "Alexander," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Alexander, baby, it's me. It's your mother."

He flinched away from me, his eyes wide with terror. He was so small, so thin. Malnutrition had stunted his growth. His spirit was broken by trauma and abuse.

Marcus wrapped a jacket around my shoulders and approached slowly, carefully. Together, we coaxed Alexander out of the cage. When I finally held him in my arms, he was stiff and unresponsive at first, but then I felt it—the faint pull of the mother-child bond I'd thought was with Ethan. It had been there all along, stretched thin across the miles but never broken.

"Mama?" The word was barely a whisper, rough from disuse and screaming.

My tears fell onto his matted, dirty hair. "Yes, baby. I'm here. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry I didn't find you sooner."

His small body began to shake, and then he was sobbing, clinging to me with a strength that belied his frail frame. Four years of pain poured out of him, and I held him through every moment, whispering promises I swore I would keep.

As we carried him out of that hellhole, stepping over the unconscious bodies, I made a vow. Everyone who'd hurt my child would pay. Starting with my husband.