Chapter 7 - The Shattered Heir
On a freezing November night in Chicago, twenty-five years after Claire lost Sophie, history repeated its cycle.
On Lake Shore Drive, a custom Italian sports car was racing through the slick asphalt at over one hundred miles per hour.
Behind the wheel was nineteen-year-old Liam Moretti, the spoiled, reckless crown prince of the Moretti empire.
Raised under Olivia's smothering indulgence and Alexander's endless checks, Liam believed he was invincible.
He had spent the night partying at an exclusive nightclub, ignoring his father’s calls to come home for dinner.
As his car entered the sharp S-curve near Oak Street Beach, Liam lost control on a patch of black ice.
The vehicle spun out violently, crashing into a concrete barrier before flipping multiple times into oncoming traffic.
The engine block crumpled inward, pinning Liam’s chest beneath tons of twisted steel and shattered glass.
When the emergency rescue crews arrived with hydraulic shears, the boy was in profound hemorrhagic shock.
His heart had suffered massive blunt trauma, his aorta was tearing, and his lungs were filling rapidly with blood.
The paramedics rushed him toward St. Jude's Trauma Center, broadcasting a code red trauma across the surgical frequencies.
In his penthouse overlooking Millennium Park, Alexander Moretti was awakened by a phone call that shattered his empire.
The voice on the other end was the chief of police, informing him that his only son was dying on a gurney.
Alexander dropped the phone, his face graying with sheer terror as Olivia began screaming hysterically behind him.
"Liam! My baby! Not my baby!" Olivia shrieked, clawing at Alexander’s silk pajama top in blind madness.
Alexander rushed to the underground garage, driving through red lights with sirens blaring behind him.
For the first time in his life, Alexander’s money, his stock options, and his political influence were completely worthless.
When they arrived at the trauma center doors, Liam was already being wheeled down the hall toward the operating suites.
The boy’s face was unrecognizable beneath bandages, oxygen masks, and blood-soaked gauze.
The senior emergency attending physician stopped Alexander and Olivia at the threshold of the surgical wing.
"Mr. Moretti, your son has a catastrophic transection of the thoracic aorta," the physician said grimly.
"None of our staff surgeons can handle this level of complex reconstruction without losing him on the table."
"What are you saying? Call the best doctors in the world! I will pay fifty million dollars right now!" Alexander bellowed.
"Money cannot fix this anatomy, Mr. Moretti, but there is only one man in this country who can perform this repair," the doctor said.
"Our new Chief of Trauma Surgery just arrived from an emergency flight, and he is scrubbing in right now."
"Who is he? Tell him to do whatever it takes!" Olivia screamed through her running mascara.
"His name is Dr. Julian Bennett," the emergency doctor replied, turning back toward the swinging doors.
Alexander stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, the surname echoing through his mind like a thunderclap.
"Bennett?" Alexander muttered, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
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Olivia grabbed his arm, her eyes wild with suspicion. "Alexander... why does that name sound familiar?"
Alexander did not answer; he sprinted toward the surgical observation deck, desperate to catch a glimpse of the savior.
