Chapter 11 The Game of Heirs

# Chapter 11: The Game of Heirs

The convent of St. Agnes rose from the Hudson Valley mist like something from another century—gray stone walls, peaked roofs, and stained glass windows that caught the late afternoon light. As our helicopter landed in an adjacent field, I could see a small group of nuns gathered at the entrance, their black habits stark against the weathered stone.

"Remember," Callum said as we disembarked, "whatever she tells you will be colored by three decades of hiding. Truth becomes malleable after so long."

"Unlike your version of truth?" I retorted, striding ahead of him.

Sister Agnes met us at the gate—a tiny woman with sharp eyes and skin like parchment. She regarded Callum with immediate suspicion.

"You did not mention you would bring company, Ms. Vervain."

"An unexpected development," I said smoothly. "May we come in?"

She hesitated, then nodded, leading us through a series of corridors to a small, austere office. "The Mother Superior has authorized me to share what I know and to give you this." She unlocked a drawer and withdrew a yellowed envelope. "It was left with you, with instructions to be given if you ever came looking."

My hands trembled slightly as I took it. "The woman who brought me here—did you ever see her again?"

Sister Agnes shook her head. "Never. But about ten years after, we received a substantial anonymous donation with a note thanking us for 'saving the child.' We assumed it was from her."

I opened the envelope carefully. Inside was a faded photograph of a young woman holding a newborn, her face partially turned away from the camera as if hiding. On the back, written in faded blue ink: "Valencia and Clarette, safe at last."

"Valencia?" I looked up, confused. "Not Vivienne?"

Sister Agnes peered at the photo. "Yes, that was the name she gave. Valencia Moor."

Callum made a sound—something between a laugh and a curse. "Of course. Her mother's maiden name."

The nun's eyes narrowed as she took in Callum more fully. "You... I recognize you. You're the man from the newspapers. The one she was afraid of."

"I'm her husband," Callum stated flatly.

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"You're the devil she spoke of," Sister Agnes countered, suddenly fierce despite her age. "The one she said would kill her baby if he found her."

I intervened before Callum could respond. "Sister, please. I need to know if Valencia—Vivienne—left any indication of where she was going."

"Italy," she said, still watching Callum warily. "She mentioned a village in Tuscany where her grandmother was born. Said no one would look for her there."

My mind raced. Tuscany. I remembered Vivienne—the woman I'd met at the hospital—mentioning family roots in Italy, a vineyard that predated the Monette holdings.

"Thank you, Sister," I said, rising. "You've been more helpful than you know."

As we left the convent, Callum was unnaturally quiet, his expression closed. Only when we were back in the helicopter did he speak.

"Siena," he said abruptly. "That's where her family's from. There's a small estate outside the city that belonged to her grandmother."

I studied him in the fading light. "You've known all along. You've always known where she went."

He met my gaze unflinchingly. "I've had my suspicions. But Vivienne was clever—she transferred ownership of the property to a shell corporation years before she disappeared. By the time my investigators traced it, the trail had gone cold."

"But now?"

"Now we have confirmation." He tapped his phone, sending a message. "I'll have the jet prepared. We can be in Italy by morning."

"We?" I arched an eyebrow. "I don't recall inviting you on this journey."

"Don't be naive, Clarette." His voice hardened. "If Vivienne is alive, if she's been hiding all these years while legally still my wife, the implications for Monette Enterprises are enormous. Divorce settlements, inheritance claims, shareholder lawsuits—this could destabilize everything."

"Your concern for the company is touching," I said dryly. "But this isn't about corporate stability for me. This is about finding my mother."

Callum reached across the space between us, his hand covering mine. Despite everything, his touch still sent electricity through my veins.

"I understand that," he said, his voice softening. "But consider this: if Vivienne has been alive all these years, watching from afar, why didn't she ever come for you? Why leave you to build a life without her?"

The question struck deep, touching an insecurity I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge. Why indeed?

"Perhaps she couldn't," I suggested, pulling my hand away. "Perhaps she was protecting me the only way she knew how—by staying away."

"Or perhaps," Callum countered, "the truth is more complex than the simple narrative you're constructing. Perhaps Vivienne had reasons beyond fear for creating a new identity, for leaving behind not just me, but you as well."

The helicopter began its descent toward the private airfield where Callum's jet waited. As the lights of the runway came into view, I made my decision.

"I'll go to Italy," I said firmly. "Alone."

"Impossible."

"Nonnegotiable." I met his gaze steadily. "I'll give you daily updates. I'll protect the company's interests as much as possible. But I need to do this by myself."

Callum's jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the skin. "And the child you carry? My grandchild? Are you considering its wellbeing in this crusade of yours?"

I placed a protective hand over my still-flat stomach. "Don't you dare use this pregnancy to manipulate me. Not after everything you've done."

The helicopter touched down, and Callum was silent as we transferred to the waiting limousine. Only when we were on our way to the private terminal did he speak again.

"One week," he said finally. "You have one week to find her, to hear her side. Then I come to Italy, with or without your permission."

"Fine." I turned to gaze out the window, unwilling to let him see the turmoil in my eyes. "One week."

---

Siena greeted me with golden sunlight and air scented with cypress and olive. My driver, arranged by Callum despite my protests, knew exactly where to take me—a small estate nestled among vineyards on the outskirts of the city.

Villa Moor was modest by Monette standards but beautiful—a honey-colored stone house with climbing roses and a view that stretched across the Tuscan hills. As the car approached, I saw an elderly woman tending to flowers in the front garden. She straightened as we pulled up, shading her eyes against the sun.

My heart hammered in my chest as I stepped out of the car. Could it be her? After all these years?

But as I drew closer, I saw this woman was too old, her features different from the photographs I'd seen of my mother.

"Buongiorno," she called, her English heavily accented. "You are looking for someone, yes?"

"Yes," I replied, approaching cautiously. "I'm looking for Valencia Moor."

The woman's expression changed, wariness replacing welcome. "Who asks for her?"

I took a deep breath. "Her daughter. Clarette."

The garden shears fell from the woman's hand, clattering on the stone path. "Madonna mia," she whispered, crossing herself. "After all these years..."

"Is she here?" I asked, hope and fear warring within me. "Is my mother alive?"

The woman hesitated, then nodded. "Sì. But she is not well. Her mind..." She tapped her temple. "Sometimes clear, sometimes lost in the past."

"I need to see her," I insisted. "Please."

After a moment's consideration, she nodded. "Come. But be gentle. The shock..."

She led me through the villa to a sunroom at the back, where a white-haired woman sat in a wheelchair, gazing out at the vineyards. My breath caught in my throat. Despite the years, despite the silver hair and lined face, I recognized her from the hospital—Vivienne Monette. My mother.

"Valencia," the caretaker said softly. "Someone has come to see you."

My mother turned, her movements slow, fragile. When her eyes met mine, they widened in shock, her hand flying to her throat.

"No," she whispered. "It can't be. You can't be here. He's found us."

I stepped forward, dropping to my knees beside her wheelchair. "It's me. Clarette. Your daughter."

She reached out a trembling hand, touching my face with feather-light fingers. "My baby," she breathed. "My beautiful girl. How did you find me?"

"It's a long story," I said, tears threatening to spill. "But I'm here now."

She gripped my hands suddenly, her eyes clearing, intensity replacing confusion. "Did he send you? Are you still with him?"

"Callum?" I asked, and she flinched at the name. "No. I came alone."

"But you know him," she insisted, searching my face. "I can see it in your eyes. You've been near him."

I couldn't lie, not now. "Yes. I... I married his son. Gideon."

The color drained from her face. "Oh, my sweet child. What has he done to you? What trap has he set?"

As she clutched my hands tighter, her eyes wild with a fear that seemed to transcend decades, I realized that finding my mother wasn't the end of this journey.

It was just the beginning.