Chapter 4

Michael POV:

The flight to Los Angeles was quiet. Suffocatingly quiet.

I sat in the leather armchair of my private jet, nursing a glass of aged whiskey. My phone lay on the table, a black monolith that hadn't lit up in four hours.

That bitch, Serena. She had ruined everything. I had explicitly ordered her to stay in New York. I had told her it was over. But she showed up, desperate for attention, desperate to stake a claim I never gave her.

And Liv...

The look on Liv's face when the wine soaked into her dress. It haunted me.

I hadn't defended her. I knew that. I had tried to play the long game. If I caused a scene with the New York delegation, the merger would collapse. I thought I was being smart. I thought I was protecting the business.

Instead, I had thrown my wife to the wolves.

"I'll fix it," I muttered to the empty cabin, the sound of my own voice hollow against the drone of the engines. "I'll buy her diamonds. I'll grovel. Liv is soft. She'll forgive me."

The plane touched down at Van Nuys.

I grabbed my bag and descended the stairs. I expected a car. A driver. My LA crew waiting in formation.

The tarmac was empty.

I frowned, scanning the desolate stretch of concrete. I checked my phone. No signal.

I walked toward the terminal. A rental car agent was in the process of locking up.

"Where is the Thorne transport?" I barked, my patience snapping.

The guy looked at me like I was a ghost. "I don't have anything for a Thorne, buddy."

I tried to call Richard, my right hand in Chicago. The call failed instantly.

I tried to check my bank balance on the app. Access Denied. Account Frozen. Contact Administrator.

A cold sweat broke out on my back, prickling against my shirt.

What is going on?

I hailed a taxi-a fucking taxi-and directed the driver to the safe house in the Hills.

My key didn't work. The electronic locks had been changed. The keypad flashed a mocking red light.

I was standing on the street, locked out of my own property.

My phone finally buzzed. A single voicemail.

It was Jennings.

I played it.

"Mr. Thorne. By order of the Hayes family and with the consent of the Commission, your assets in Chicago have been seized pending an investigation into your conduct. You are persona non grata in Illinois."

I stared at the phone. They stripped me. In six hours, they had stripped me naked.

But the message wasn't over. Jennings' voice dropped an octave. It sounded heavy, burdened.

"Also... I regret to inform you that Mrs. Thorne was rushed to the hospital shortly after your departure."

My heart stopped. Liv.

"The doctors did what they could. But the stress... the trauma of the evening..."

There was a pause. A silence that screamed.

"She lost the child, Michael. She was three months along. It was a boy."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers. It hit the pavement with a sickening crack.

A child?

Liv was pregnant?

And I... I didn't know.

I sank to my knees on the dirty sidewalk. The LA smog choked me, filling my lungs with ash.

I replayed the night in my head. Serena spilling the wine. Me telling Liv to be quiet. Me leaving her there.

I killed him.

I killed my son.

A scream tore out of my throat. It was a raw, animal sound. I punched the concrete until my knuckles split and bled, the physical pain nothing compared to the agony in my chest.

I had chosen a whore over my wife. I had chosen business over my blood.

And now I had nothing. No money. No power. No wife. No son.

I curled up on the ground, the great Michael Thorne, King of Chicago, reduced to a weeping beggar in the dirt.

\The silence of the night was heavy, but it wasn't as heavy as the guilt that settled on my chest. It was a weight that would never lift.

I was in hell. And God help me, I deserved to be here.