Part 2: My ex-husband’s entire family gathered at the clinic to celebrate his mistress’s ultrasound, completely unaware that I had already boarded a flight to Edinburgh with his only real heirs.

The transatlantic flight on the chartered Gulfstream IV had done nothing to calm Julian Whitmore’s frayed nerves. If anything, the twelve hours of forced isolation, fueled by miniature bourbon bottles and cocaine he had scored from an old college fraternity brother in East Boston, had pushed him past the brink of sanity.

He looked at his reflection in the small lavatory mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, purple bruises of exhaustion. His jaw was stubbled with three days of unkempt beard, and the collar of his once-immaculate shirt was gray with sweat.

His phone buzzed as the jet touched down on the tarmac at Prestwick Airport, thirty miles outside Glasgow.

It was a notification from the *Boston Globe*’s business desk:

**BREAKING: SEC LAUNCHES FORMAL INQUIRY INTO WHITMORE ENTERPRISES; JULIAN WHITMORE OUSTED AMID EMBEZZLEMENT AND OFFSHORE FRAUD ALLEGATIONS.**

Julian choked back a curse, nearly throwing the phone into the sink.

Below the headline was a high-resolution photograph of Bianca leaving the St. Jude clinic in handcuffs, flanked by two plainclothes Boston detectives. She had been arrested at Logan Airport trying to board a flight to Grand Cayman carrying forty-five thousand dollars in undeclared cash and three fake passports.

The article detailed everything: the phantom pregnancy, the fraudulent medical claims, and the three million dollars funneled through corporate accounts under the guise of "pre-development consulting."

His father had not protected him. Charles had released a formal corporate statement throwing Julian entirely under the bus, claiming the company had been "the victim of rogue malfeasance by a former executive officer."

Julian was ruined. His reputation on Wall Street was ash. His social standing in Boston was eradicated.

The only thing he had left—the only leverage that could force his father to bring him back into the fold and make the board drop their lawsuits—was Lily and Noah. If he brought the children back, if he forced Claire into an out-of-court settlement that restored the forty-two million dollar trust, Charles would have to forgive him. The family would survive.

"We have wheels down, Mr. Whitmore," the flight attendant said nervously through the door. "Private customs has cleared your manifest."

Julian stepped out of the lavatory, pulling a heavy wool coat over his shoulders. Waiting for him in the main cabin was Frank DeLuca, a former state trooper who had spent twenty years handling "delicate family problems" for Victoria’s side of the family.

DeLuca was chewing on an unlit toothpick, his hands resting inside the pockets of his leather jacket. He didn't look like a lawyer; he looked like an enforcer who had buried plenty of secrets in the Massachusetts marshes.

"You got the location?" Julian asked, his voice hoarse, scraping like gravel.

DeLuca nodded, holding up a printout with an aerial view of Dunraven Lodge. "A private estate five miles west of South Queensferry. It’s isolated. Dense woods on three sides, river on the fourth. Only one access road through an automated iron gate."

"Good," Julian spat, grabbing his duffel bag. "We hire a local car. We drive out there right now before she knows we’re in the country."

"Julian, slow down," DeLuca said, his tone flat, unimpressed. "This isn't South Boston. We don't have local cops on the payroll here. The UK has strict child recovery laws. If the local constabulary gets called, we get tossed in a holding cell before you can even see your kids."

"Those are *my* children!" Julian yelled, his voice cracking with manic fury. "My name is on their birth certificates! Claire is a thief who stole forty million dollars of my family’s money! She doesn't have the right to hide behind some Scottish castle!"

"Your name is on the birth certificates, but your signature is on an international custody waiver," DeLuca reminded him, stepping down the airstair onto the wet Scottish tarmac. "If we do this, we do it clean. We serve her with the emergency jurisdictional injunction your mother’s emergency counsel filed in London this morning. We get the kids into the car peacefully, and we drive straight back to this plane."