Disclaimer: I do not own Passions, any of it's characters, or locations. They are the property of James E. Reilly and NBC.
Author's Note: This story takes place after the tsunami and after Theresa moved into the mansion, but before Alistair raped her.
PROLOGUE
Alistair Crane sat in his leather chair behind his desk, gaze fixed intently upon one of the many television screens on the adjacent wall. On this screen, Ethan Winthrop was swimming in the Crane pool with his nine month-old daughter, Jane. Ethan was blowing raspberries on his baby's tummy and lifting her high in the air, making her giggle and grin. Most people would have smiled at the scene. Alistair wanted to hurl.
It had been over four years since Alistair, along with the rest of the world, had discovered that Ethan was not really a Crane, but the young man was still living in the Crane mansion, just like he had for most of his life. It hadn't bothered Alistair so much at first – he was Gwen's husband, and Gwen was his son's stepdaughter. Plus, it helped having people in the mansion – it made for easier spying.
But lately, Ethan had started to piss Alistair off. First, he'd dared to question the future of the empire that Alistair had worked so tirelessly to create – and in front of his beloved Fancy, too – and then he kept threatening Alistair to stay away from Theresa. It had been pathetic, really. As if a mere Bennett could stop a Crane. It must have been some sort of defect in the Bennett genes.
But, genetic defects aside, Alistair wanted to punish Ethan, and badly. It was time that the boy got what was coming to him. It was a good thing that Alistair took out little "insurance policies" every now and then. He'd taken out one the previous November, unsure if he'd ever need to use it. He was glad he'd taken it out now.
Alistair swiveled around in his chair and entered the combination into his safe. Once open, he pulled out a thin file before closing the safe door. He laid the file down on his desk and opened it. On top of a stack of papers was an amateur photograph of an infant boy, no more than a day old. Alistair stared at the photograph for a moment before closing the file and picking up the phone on his desk. He dialed a number and waited. Shortly after the first ring, the phone was answered.
"It's me," Alistair stated, voice commanding and intimidating. "Please inform Mrs. Winthrop that her presence is requested in my office as soon as possible."
Alistair hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. Revenge would be sweet.