Please Come Back, My Love novel Chapter 369

Chapter 369

Claire’s POV

The video editing suite Damien had recommended was tucked away in a nondescript building in Long Island City–the kind of place that asked no questions as long as the payment cleared. I sat in the dimly lit room, watching the technician work his magic on the footage we’d staged three days ago.

On the screen, a woman who could pass for Sophia Cruz at a distance stumbled backward on a rain–slicked street, her body crumpling as a dark sedan sped away.

The actress had been expensive–someone desperate enough to take cash and sign an NDA without reading it too carefully–but the resemblance was close enough for our purposes.

“Can you make it grainier?” I asked, leaning forward. “Like it was captured on someone’s phone from across the street.*

The technician nodded, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Sure thing. Add some shake, lower the resolution, maybe some audio distortion…”

“Perfect.” I watched as he degraded the quality just enough to obscure the actress’s face while maintaining the general impression of a hit–and–run. “And the timestamp?”

“Set for last Tuesday, 11:47 PM. Queens Boulevard, like you specified.”

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the file Damien had sent me earlier–security protocols for the property where Sophia’s parents were being held.

The guards rotated every twelve hours. Mail and deliveries were screened but not opened in front of the recipients.

Lucas had been meticulous about their isolation, but he’d made one crucial mistake: he’d allowed them to maintain their old cell phones, probably to create the illusion they weren’t prisoners.

Those phones were our entry point.

“How soon can you have the final version ready?” I asked.

‘Give me another hour to render it, add the news report overlay.”

“News report?”

He pulled up a second screen, showing a mocked–up local news segment. The chyron read: [WOMAN KILLED IN QUEENS HIT–AND–RUN, POLICE SEEKING WITNESSES.]

Below it, a ticker scrolled past with generic crime statistics.

“We’ll make it look like a screenshot from NY1,” he explained. “Add a reporter’s voice over, some b–roll footage of the actual location. Anyone who sees it will assume it’s real.

I felt a smile curve my lips. “You’re worth every penny, Marcus.”

" Time to please.” He didn’t look up from his work, already absorbed in the technical details. You want this sent to a specific number?

Pulled out the burner phone I’d purchased specifically for this operation and read off the number Damien had obtained–the cell phone registered to Sophia’s mother, Rosa Cruz.

“Just that one?‘ Marcus asked.

“For now.” I stood, smoothing down my skirt. Send it as an MMS from a blocked number. Make it look like it came from someone who knew the victim and wanted the family to know.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

I paused at the door, considering. The video was phase one–designed to trigger exactly the kind of medical emergency that would seem tragically inevitable given Rosa Cruz’s preexisting condition.

But I needed insurance, something that would ensure the situation spiraled beyond Lucas’s ability to control it.

“What conversation?” He was already counting the bills, his expression neutral.

As the car merged into traffic, I checked my watch. 2:47 PM. The video would be sent within the hour. If my research into Rosa Cruz’s medical history was accurate, the shock of seeing her daughter “killed” on camera would trigger a severe asthma attack. The kind that could lead to respiratory failure if not, treated immediately.

Sophia had made her choice when she’d let Lucas keep her. When she’d agreed to carry his child in exchange for her parents safety. Shed gambled that his

protection was real, that he had the power to keep them safe.

But protection was only as strong as the person offering it. And I was about to prove that Lucas Reynolds couldn’t protect anyone—not Sophia, not her parents, not even himself–from the consequences of underestimating me

My phone buzzed. A text from Damien:

Confirmed: guards at the property change shift at 3 PM. Thirty–minute window during handoff when surveillance monitoring is lightest.

I typed back: Perfect timing.

The video would hit Rosa Cruz’s phone right in the middle of that shift change. If she collapsed–when she collapsed–there would be those crucial minutes

of confusion, of guards trying to figure out what was happening, of calling for medical help while following Lucas’s protocols about maintaining secrecy.

Minutes that could mean the difference between full recovery and permanent brain damage.

I leaned back against the leather seat, watching the city scroll past. Somewhere in Greenwich, Sophia was probably enduring another day of her carefully

monitored captivity, believing her compliance had bought her parents‘ safety.

By tomorrow, she’d know the truth.

That safety was an illusion. That Lucas’s control was a facade. That the only person who truly held power in this situation was the one willing to do whatever it took to win.