Chapter 6 - Daniel’s Desperate Pursuit: Tracking Claire To The West Coast
Three days after his public humiliation on Wall Street, Daniel Mercer hired an elite private intelligence firm to track my location.
Having lost his CEO title, his corporate credit cards, and his penthouse access, Daniel had moved into a modest two-star hotel near Queens, surviving on his personal checking account—which was rapidly draining from legal retainer fees.
At 2:00 PM on Thursday, the private investigator called Daniel with an address.
“We found her, Mr. Mercer,” the investigator reported. “Claire is residing at an oceanfront private estate on Bainbridge Island, just across the bay from Seattle. The property is registered under her sister, Dr. Chloe Sterling. Claire is currently thirty-six weeks pregnant and attending prenatal appointments at Swedish Medical Center.”
Daniel grabbed his remaining leather duffel bag, hailed a cab to LaGuardia Airport, and purchased a one-way coach ticket to Seattle.
During the six-hour flight, Daniel’s narcissistic mind convinced him of a delusion:
He told himself that Claire was just hurt. He told himself that once he stood before her in person, apologized with tears in his eyes, and promised to cut Vanessa out of his life forever, Claire’s maternal instincts would take over. He believed that no woman would allow her child to be born without a father, and that my soft-spoken nature would eventually surrender to his charm.
At 8:00 AM on Friday morning, the Washington State ferry docked at Bainbridge Island.
Daniel rented a cheap sedan and drove through the misty pine forests until he reached the gated entrance of the Sterling seaside estate.
The heavy wrought-iron security gate was closed.
Daniel got out of the car, pressed the intercom buzzer repeatedly, and shouted into the speaker:
“Claire! Claire, please open the gate! It’s Daniel! I flew three thousand miles to see you! We need to talk about our baby!”
No one answered through the speaker.
Instead, thirty seconds later, the security gate slowly glided open.
Daniel’s face lit up with a triumphant, arrogant smirk. “I knew it,” he whispered to himself. “She couldn't stay mad at me.”
He drove his rental car up the long gravel driveway, parked in front of the modern cedar-and-glass mansion, and walked up the stone steps to the front door.
He adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and knocked firmly.
The door swung open.
Standing on the threshold was not a weeping, heartbroken pregnant woman waiting for an apology.
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Standing in front of him was Chloe Sterling, holding a cup of black coffee, flanked by two towering, armed private security guards and an elite process server.
And sitting comfortably in an armchair in the sunlit living room behind them—looking radiant, healthy, and completely untouched by his chaos—was me.
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