Chapter 4 - The Hunt in Geneva
Forty-eight hours later.
The Montreux Palace Hotel overlooking Lake Geneva was bathed in late afternoon sunlight. The snow-capped Alps rose majestically in the distance, reflected perfectly in the calm, deep blue water.
On the terrace of a luxury suite, Victoria Thompson sat in a silk robe, sipping champagne from a crystal flute.
She looked stunning—thirty-six years old, with perfectly styled blonde hair, diamond earrings, and a pristine manicure. Beside her sat Richard Vance, wearing an unbuttoned linen shirt, reviewing a portfolio on his tablet.
"The Zurich transfer finalized an hour ago," Richard smiled, taking a sip of his own drink. "Forty-five million dollars, clean as a whistle. We can buy the villa in Como by next week."
Victoria laughed, leaning back against her lounge chair. "I still can't believe how easy it was. Michael was so obsessed with his stupid little pediatric drug deal in Japan that he didn't even notice the accounts being drained."
"What about the girls?" Richard asked casually, not even looking up from his tablet. "Did your housekeeper find them?"
Victoria sneered, waving her hand dismissively. "Who cares? Maria probably picked them up from the garden an hour after we left. Michael will get custody, which is fine by me. I never wanted to be a mother anyway. Children ruin your body and take up too much time."
"To freedom," Richard said, raising his glass.
"To freedom," Victoria echoed, clinking her glass against his.
Suddenly, the French doors leading to the interior suite slammed open with a violent bang.
Four Swiss Federal Police officers, wearing dark uniforms and carrying tactical gear, burst onto the terrace, weapons drawn!
"Anderung! Hände hoch!" an officer shouted in high-pitched German. "Hands where we can see them!"
Victoria dropped her champagne glass, which shattered loudly on the stone tiles. "What is the meaning of this?! Who are you?!"
Richard jumped up, his face turning pale as paper. "You have no jurisdiction here! We are American citizens!"
From behind the armed police officers, a tall man in a dark tailored suit stepped onto the terrace.
Michael Thompson.
Victoria’s jaw dropped. Her eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing horror. "Michael?"
Michael walked slowly across the terrace, his dark eyes locked onto his wife. He didn't look angry. He didn't look frantic. He looked like an executioner delivering a long-awaited sentence.
"Hello, Victoria. Hello, Richard," Michael said softly, his voice dropping into an icy register.
"Michael... baby, wait!" Victoria stammered, backing away until her spine hit the stone balustrade. "This is a misunderstanding! Richard... Richard forced me! He tricked me into taking the money! He threatened to hurt you!"
Richard looked at Victoria in utter disbelief. "What?! You lying bitch! It was your idea! You wanted the money to buy the villa!"
"Shut up!" Victoria screamed, tears of panic spilling over her expensive makeup. She turned back to Michael, falling to her knees on the terrace, grabbing at his trousers. "Michael, please! Think of Emma and Sophie! They need their mother!"
Michael looked down at the woman kneeling at his feet—the woman he had loved for thirteen years, the woman who had shared his bed, his dreams, and his home.
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And all he could see was two eight-year-old girls shivering barefoot under an oak tree in a thunderstorm.
"Emma and Sophie don't have a mother," Michael said, kicking her hands off his shoes with cold disgust. "Their mother died the moment she locked them outside in the rain."
