Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 254

Lucas's POV

The investigation results came through exactly twenty-six hours after I'd set Victor Ashford on the trail.

I was in my office, staring at quarterly projections I couldn't focus on, when the encrypted email arrived. The subject line was stark: [Evidence Confirmed - Vanderbilt, Claire.]

My hands went still on the keyboard.

I'd known. Some part of me had known from the moment Bob described Rosa Cruz's collapse. The timing, the precision, and the cruelty of using a fabricated death video.

I opened the attachment.

The technical breakdown was damning. The deepfake video had been commissioned through a Long Island editing suite—cash payment, burner contact info, the whole nine yards.

Victor's team had traced the MMS origin to a blocked number that pinged off a cell tower three blocks from Claire's Tribeca penthouse. The timestamp matched her calendar gap between a morning yoga class and an afternoon charity luncheon.

But the real smoking gun was buried in the financial forensics.

The editing suite's owner had been sloppy, depositing the cash payment the same day. Cross-referenced with Claire's private accounts—the ones she thought were hidden behind shell companies and offshore trusts—showed a withdrawal of the exact amount, within hours of the transaction.

Victor had even included surveillance footage from the building across from the editing suite. Grainy, but unmistakable: Claire Vanderbilt, wearing oversized sunglasses and a headscarf, entering at 2:47 PM on the day the video was created.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight.

The evidence was irrefutable. Claire had orchestrated the entire thing—the fake video, the anonymous delivery to Rosa Cruz's phone, the calculated timing to maximize psychological damage.

But even staring at the proof, I couldn't reconcile it with the woman I thought I knew.

Claire was manipulative, yes. Jealous, possessive, willing to play dirty to get what she wanted. I'd never been blind to those qualities. But this—deliberately triggering a potentially fatal medical episode in an innocent woman—this crossed a line I hadn't believed she was capable of crossing.

My mind drifted back to seven years ago. When my family went bankrupt. When I was forced to leave everything behind, fleeing to a foreign city with nothing but the clothes on my back.

I still remembered that night—the dark alley, the group of thugs closing in, their faces twisted with malice. I'd been cornered, desperate, certain I was going to die in some godforsaken street thousands of miles from home.

And then Claire's people had appeared. Her security team, cutting through the attackers like avenging angels. They'd pulled me out of that hell, gotten me medical attention, set me up in a safe house until I could get back on my feet.

Claire herself had visited me in the hospital. Held my hand. Told me I'd always have her protection, that she saw potential in me and was willing to invest in my future.

At that time, she was nothing short of a savior to me. A benefactor who'd appeared when I had nothing, offering not just rescue but opportunity—a lifeline when I was drowning.

The adults in her circle had called her compassionate. A woman with a heart of gold who helped those less fortunate. My own scattered family, what was left of them, had been grateful beyond words.

For years, I'd carried that debt.

Maybe that's why I'd let things go so far. Why I'd tolerated her schemes, her manipulations, her increasingly unhinged jealousy. Because somewhere deep down, I'd convinced myself that someone who'd saved a desperate, broken man couldn't be truly cruel.

I'd been wrong.

But even now, staring at evidence of attempted murder, I couldn't bring myself to hand her over to the police. Not yet.

*She's still the girl who brought me home,* some irrational part of me whispered. *She made a terrible mistake, but she didn't mean for it to go this far.*

I grabbed my phone and dialed Adrian.

"Sir?"

"I need you to arrange something." My voice came out colder than I'd intended. "Quietly."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"There's a property in Westchester. The old Ashford estate we use for executive retreats. I want it secured—minimal staff, no access except through me. And I want Claire Vanderbilt brought there within the hour."

A pause. "Brought there, sir?"

"She's not to be harmed. But she's not to leave, either. Post security at the main entrances. No phone, no internet, no contact with the outside world." I pulled up the surveillance photo of Claire entering the editing suite. "Tell her it's for her own protection. That there's been a credible threat and we need to keep her safe until it's resolved."

"And if she refuses?"

"She won't." I closed the file with more force than necessary. "Because if she does, I'll have her arrested for conspiracy to commit murder."

Another beat of silence. Then: "Understood. I'll handle it personally."

"Good. And Adrian? No one knows about this except you, me, and the security team. Not my mother, not Blake, no one."

"Yes, sir."

I ended the call and sat back, staring at the darkening skyline.

This wasn't mercy. It was... containment. A chance to confront Claire privately, to understand why she'd done something so reckless, so vicious. To see if there was any explanation that could justify what she'd put Rosa Cruz through.

She'd been careless, I told myself. Jealous and stupid, but not truly malicious. She probably thought the video would just scare Rosa, make Sophia back off. She couldn't have anticipated the severity of the reaction.

It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident born of jealousy and poor judgment.

I needed to believe that.

My phone buzzed. Sophia's number.

I stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. She'd asked me what I was going to do about Claire. I'd told her I'd handle it.

I just hadn't told her how.

I answered on the fourth ring.

"Lucas." Her voice was flat, scraped raw. "Did you find out who did it?"

No greeting. No preamble. Just the question that had probably been eating her alive for the past day and a half.

"Yeah." I kept my tone neutral. "I know who sent the video."

Silence. Then, very quietly: "Tell me."

"Claire."

The word hung between us like a blade.

I heard her breathing change—sharper, faster. "You're sure?"

"Completely. I have surveillance footage, financial records, digital forensics. She commissioned a deepfake video editing service, paid cash, and sent it from a burner phone three blocks from her apartment." I paused. "There's no question it was her."

Another beat of silence. When she spoke again, her voice had gone cold. Dangerously cold.

"I want her dead."

The bluntness of it should have shocked me. It didn't.

"Sophia—"

"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare tell me to be reasonable. That *bitch* tried to kill my mother. My mother, Lucas. The only person who ever—" Her voice broke. "She's lying in that hospital bed like a corpse. The doctors say even if she wakes up, there might be brain damage. Permanent damage. Because Claire Vanderbilt wanted to hurt me through her."

I closed my eyes. "I know."

"So what are you going to do about it?" The question was sharp, accusatory. "Are you going to protect your fiancée? Make excuses for her like you always do?"

"I've already dealt with it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Claire is being moved to a secure location as we speak. No phone, no internet, no contact with anyone. She'll stay there until—until she understands the severity of what she's done."

A long, dangerous silence.

"So you're locking her up." Sophia's voice was flat. "In some luxury estate, I'm guessing. With round-the-clock staff and gourmet meals and all the comforts of home."

"She's being confined, not coddled."

"And then what? You lecture her? Tell her she's been a bad girl and needs to think about what she's done?" Bitterness dripped from every word. "Jesus Christ, Lucas. She tried to *murder* my mother. And you're treating her like a misbehaving child."

"I don't think she meant for it to go this far." The words came out defensive. "She was jealous, reckless—but I don't believe she actually wanted your mother to die. It was a mistake, Sophia. A terrible, unforgivable mistake, but—"