Chapter 7 - THE FLIGHT TO GENEVAThe private Gulfstream G650 climbed smoothly above the heavy cloud cover, banking east toward the Atlantic. The cabin was a sanctuary of dark leather, polished walnut, and absolute silence, save for the low, steady drone of the jet engines.
Eleanor sat by the window, a cup of black coffee untouched on the table beside her. Wrapped securely in a soft, cashmere blanket in the bassinet across from her, the baby—whom the hospital had temporarily registered as Baby Doe Montgomery—was sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling in regular, healthy rhythms.
The door to the private stateroom at the back of the plane slid open.
Dr. Marcus Vance stepped out, wearing a pair of reading glasses and carrying a heavy medical chart.
“She’s out of the woods,” Dr. Vance said, walking over and taking a seat opposite Eleanor. “Her bloodwork came back clean. No permanent organ damage from the hypothermia. She’s a fighter, Ms. Montgomery. She gets that from her bloodline, I suppose.”
Eleanor turned her gaze away from the clouds outside and looked at the sleeping infant. For the first time in her life, the heavy, crushing armor of executive detachment felt thin, fragile, and entirely unnecessary.
“She doesn't have a name yet,” Eleanor murmured.
“Well, technically, her birth certificate lists her father as deceased and her mother as unknown,” Dr. Vance replied carefully. “If Jonathan Montgomery is still alive and hiding in Europe, as you suspect, he’s going to surface the moment we land in Switzerland. He thinks he holds all the cards because of the family trust clause.”
Eleanor picked up her coffee cup, her fingers tracing the rim. “Jonathan always was a gambler who played with other people’s money. He thinks the trust makes him untouchable. He forgot one fundamental rule of corporate law.”
“What’s that?”
“A contract can always be rewritten by the majority shareholder,” Eleanor said, her eyes flashing with cold steel. “And by the time we touch down in Geneva, I won’t just be a majority shareholder. I’ll be her legal guardian.”
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Dr. Vance raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to adopt her?”
“She’s a Montgomery,” Eleanor said simply. “And we take care of our own—even the ones left in the trash.”
