Chapter 10 - THE BLACK ENVELOPE
“Sir. This just arrived by private courier.”
Nicholas frowned, taking the black envelope from Arthur’s tray.
There was no return address. Just his name written in elegant, silver ink.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph and a handwritten note.
The photograph showed Elena.
Not from four years ago. It was recent. She was standing in front of a café in Paris, looking older, tired, but undeniably alive.
Nicholas stopped breathing.
“Elena,” he whispered.
Maria leaned over, looking at the photo. “Is that... Lucy’s mother?”
Nicholas nodded, his mind racing. Vivienne and Domenic had sworn Elena was dead. They had lied about everything else, why not this?
He unfolded the note.
Nicholas. They told me you killed the baby. I had to hide. But I know the truth now. I’m coming back for my daughter.
The peace they had just found shattered instantly.
“She’s alive,” Nicholas said, standing up, holding a sleeping Lucy tighter against his chest.
Maria’s face paled. “She wants to take Lucy away?”
“I won't let that happen,” Nicholas said fiercely. “You raised her. You are her mother.”
But the complication was agonizing. Elena was the woman he had loved. She had been a victim of his brother’s lies.
The next morning, the mansion was on high alert.
Nicholas hired the best private investigators to track the origin of the letter.
But he didn't have to wait long.
That afternoon, the heavy iron gates of the estate buzzed.
Arthur answered the intercom.
“Sir,” the butler said, turning to Nicholas in the study. “There is a woman at the gate. She says her name is Elena.”
Nicholas felt his heart slam against his ribs.
He looked at Maria, who was holding Lucy on the sofa.
Maria nodded bravely. “Let her in, Nicholas. We have to face this.”
The gates opened.
A sleek black car pulled up the driveway.
A woman stepped out.
She was beautiful, dressed in an elegant coat, her dark hair blowing in the wind.
It was Elena.
But as Nicholas walked out to the front steps to meet her, he noticed something wrong.
She wasn't looking at him with love, or relief.
She was looking at him with absolute, cold hatred.
And stepping out of the car behind her, holding her hand, was a five-year-old boy.
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A boy who looked exactly like Domenic.
TITLE: THE BOY IN THE CAR
