The Abandoned Wife's Second Chance (Scarlett and Jasper) novel Chapter 170

Chapter 170

(Morgan’s POV)

The camera clicks, capturing Scarlett and Virginia exactly as I need them–bound, helpless, side by side like the perfect matched set they are. Two daughters. Two pieces on my

chessboard.

Virginia’s still unconscious, her head lolling against her shoulder, blood dried on her temple. Scarlett’s awake, though. Too awake. Those eyes of hers burn with a hatred that would be intimidating if she weren’t zip–tied to a metal chair.

“Smile for daddy,” I murmur, snapping the photo with a click.

Perfect. It came out exactly the way I wanted.

“You won’t get away with this,” Scarlett says. Her voice is hoarse but steady. “Jasper knows something’s wrong. He’ll come looking-”

“Jasper’s unconscious in a hospital bed. Even if he wakes up, by the time he convinces anyone to listen, this will all be over.” I attach the photo to a text message, my fingers moving efficiently across the screen. “Besides, I don’t need to get away with it. I just need James Stone to suffer.”

I hit send before she can respond. The message is simple: Come alone to the warehouse on Fifth Street. Bring ten million in bearer bonds. You have two hours, or your daughters die. Tell anyone, and they die. Call the police, and they die. Come alone.

I check my watch. “One hour and fifty–nine minutes. Now let’s see if daddy loves you both enough to follow my instructions.”

(James POV)

My phone buzzes during dinner.

Blair’s made lamb shanks–my favorite–and we’re eating in the dining room like we used to before everything fell apart. Before Virginia arrived. Before Scarlett left. Back when our family felt whole instead of shattered into pieces we don’t know how to reassemble.

Ignore it,” Blair says softly. “One meal without work. Please.”

But something about the buzz feels wrong. Urgent. I pull the phone from my pocket, and my blood turns to ice.

The photo loads slowly, pixel by pixel. Two women tied to chairs. Scarlett on the left, her

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hijab torn, face bruised. Virginia on the right, unconscious and bleeding.

“James?” Blair’s voice sounds distant. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

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I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My daughters–both my daughters–staring back at me from this

nightmare.

The text below the photo is simple and devastating: Come alone to the warehouse on Fifth Street. Bring ten million in bearer bonds. You have two hours, or your daughters die. Tell anyone, and they die. Call the police, and they die. Come alone.

“James!” Blair’s standing now, coming around the table. “You’re scaring me. What-”

She sees the screen and gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

“I’m calling the police.” I’m already pulling up the number, my fingers shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone.

“No.” Blair grabs my wrist, surprisingly strong. “Read the message again. They’ll kill them if you call the police.”

“Blair, we can’t just-”

“Look at who sent it.” Her voice is sharp now, cutting through my panic. “Look at the name.”

I do. Morgan.

“Does that name mean anything to you?” Blair’s already moving to the study, pulling open drawers, rifling through old files. “Morgan. Morgan. I know I’ve heard that name before.”

“I don’t-” But something niggles at the back of my mind. Something old and buried and ugly.

Blair’s throwing papers across the desk now, her movements frantic. “It was years ago. Before Scarlett. Before Virginia was even born. There was a business competitor-”

“David Foster.” The name surfaces like a corpse from deep water, bringing with it the stench of old sins. “Oh God. David Foster.”

Blair freezes, her hands full of files. “What did you do, James?”

“He was competition. Real competition. His company was innovative, aggressive. He was taking contracts I needed, clients I’d spent years cultivating.” The words taste like poison. “So I… I made sure he couldn’t compete anymore.”

“How?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“Rumors. Lies about embezzlement, about mismanaged funds. I had connections at the

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banks, at the regulatory agencies. It wasn’t hard to make people believe he was dirty.” I sink into my desk chair, the weight of it crushing me. “His business collapsed within six months. Last I heard, he’d killed himself.”

“Oh James.” Blair’s face has gone white. “His family-”

“Lost everything.” The full picture is coming together now, terrible and clear. “His wife died. His son… there was something about the son. Drugs, I think. And there was a sister. Young. She disappeared after her father died.”

“Morgan.” Blair’s hands are trembling as she pulls out an old newspaper clipping from twenty–seven years ago. “Look. Look at this.”

It’s an obituary. David Foster, survived by his wife Catherine, son John, and sister Morgan. Fifteen years old.

The photo is grainy, but the eyes–those sharp green eyes–they’re the same.

“She took her father’s name.” My voice sounds hollow. “And she’s been planning this for over two decades.”

“What do we do?” Blair looks lost, fragile in a way I haven’t seen since we lost Virginia the first time. “James, what do we do?”

I look at the photo again. Scarlett, defiant even in captivity. Virginia, bleeding and unconscious. Both my daughters. One I raised, one I failed to protect. Both paying for my

sins.

“I go.” The decision is simple, really. “I go alone, just like she wants.”

“No.” Blair grabs my arm. “That’s insane. She’ll kill you too. She’ll take the money and kill all three of you.”

“Maybe.” I stand, moving to the safe behind my desk. The bearer bonds are there–I keep them for emergencies, for situations where cash isn’t enough. “But if I don’t go, she’ll definitely kill them. This Morgan–she wants me to suffer. She wants me to watch them die, or she wants me to choose between them and my money. Either way, I have to try.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“Blair-”

“They’re my daughters too!” Her voice breaks. “I lost Virginia once. I pushed Scarlett away. I won’t lose them both because I was too afraid to fight.”

I look at my wife–this woman who’s been my partner for thirty years, who’s weathered every

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