Chapter 5 - THE THIRD CHILD
“Triplets.”
The word hung in the air, a physical weight that seemed to crush the oxygen out of the penthouse.
I staggered backward, my hand flying to my chest as a sharp, agonizing pain flared behind my ribs. Rachel rushed forward, catching my arm before I could collapse, her own face pale with shock.
“What are you talking about?” Rachel demanded, glaring at her uncle. “Mom was awake for the birth! She would have known!”
“She wasn't awake for the end of it,” James choked out from the floor, his face buried in his hands. “There were complications. Her blood pressure crashed. They put her under general anesthesia after you were born, Rachel. You were the first.”
My mind raced backward, tearing through twenty-seven years of memories. I remembered the blinding hospital lights. The sudden panic in the room. The mask slipping over my face, the heavy, dark sleep that pulled me under. When I woke up, James was sitting by my bed, his eyes red and swollen. He had held a tiny, crying Rachel in his arms.
“The second baby didn't make it, Marina,” he had whispered, his tears falling onto my hospital gown. “A cord prolapse. I’m so sorry.”
I had spent decades mourning a ghost. And now, I was mourning two.
“Carolina was the second born,” Daniel said quietly, staring at my father’s silver pocket watch in his hands. “Arthur’s men were waiting in the private wing. They took her before Marina ever woke up. They handed James a briefcase with two million dollars. It was supposed to be a simple transaction. Cruel, but simple.”
“But the third,” I breathed, the horror sinking into my bones. “There was a third baby?”
Daniel nodded slowly. “A boy.”
Carolina let out a sharp gasp, taking a step closer to Evelyn. “I have a brother?”
Answer One: Dr. Thorne orchestrated the entire baby-selling scheme because he was Arthur’s brother, using his medical access to steal my children. Open Two: Where is the third child, the boy? And why did Dr. Thorne steal my father’s pocket watch?
“Thorne delivered him ten minutes after Carolina,” Daniel continued, his voice trembling. “But Arthur didn't want a boy. He specifically wanted a girl to appease his first wife, Evelyn, who had always dreamed of a daughter.”
Evelyn covered her mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling over her hands. “I never knew. God forgive me, I never knew.”
“So what happened to my son?” I screamed, my composure completely shattering. I lunged at James, grabbing the collar of his expensive, rumpled shirt. “What did you do to my son, you coward?!”
James wept, his hands hovering over mine but not daring to touch me. “Thorne kept him, Marina! He said the boy was too small, too sickly to leave the hospital immediately. He said he would put him into the system. An orphanage. He promised he would go to a good family. But he kept the pocket watch. He said he needed collateral to ensure we never spoke of it.”
“Collateral?” Rachel spat. “You sold two children and faked your deaths for money!”
“We didn't fake our deaths for the money!” James yelled, suddenly looking up, his eyes wide with a frantic, haunted terror. “We faked our deaths to survive!”
He pushed himself away from me, scrambling backward against the marble island.
“Arthur paid us for the girl,” James panted. “But Thorne… Thorne was a psychopath, Marina. A week after you were discharged, Daniel went to the hospital to demand the pocket watch back. He followed Thorne to the basement records room. He saw what Thorne was really doing.”
Daniel’s face had drained of all color. He looked physically ill.
“He wasn't putting babies into the system, Marina,” Daniel whispered. “Thorne was running an illegal adoption ring out of the hospital. Selling infants to the highest bidders in Europe. When he saw me looking through the window, he sent his fixers after us. They cornered us at the docks. That’s why we faked the boating accident. We had to disappear, or Thorne would have killed us, and he would have come after you and Rachel to tie up loose ends.”
I let go of James, my hands shaking so violently I couldn't form a fist.
They hadn't just sold my children. They had abandoned a premature infant to a black-market child trafficker and run away to save their own skins.
“He sold my son,” I said, the words hollow, devoid of anything but pure, absolute devastation.
“I don't know who bought him,” Daniel cried. “I swear to God, Marina, I don't know.”
Suddenly, a loud, sharp laugh echoed through the penthouse.
We all turned.
My former lawyer, Daniel the attorney, was leaning against the mahogany elevator doors. He was clapping slowly, a chilling, mocking sound in the heavy atmosphere of the room.
“Bravo,” the lawyer said, slipping his phone back into his tailored suit pocket. “A truly touching family reunion. I almost feel bad for what happens next.”
Reversal: The lawyer wasn't just a corporate stooge for Arthur Whitmore. He was actively coordinating with someone else in the room.
Rachel stepped in front of me, shielding me. “You’re done. The FBI has Arthur. Your career is over. You’re going to prison.”
“Am I?” The lawyer smiled, straightening his tie. “You see, Rachel, Arthur was a fool. An arrogant old man who thought money could buy loyalty. But I never worked for Arthur.”
He reached into his briefcase. He didn't pull out a legal document.
He pulled out a suppressed 9mm pistol.
Carolina screamed, ducking behind Evelyn. James and my brother froze in terror.
The lawyer aimed the weapon directly at Rachel’s chest.
“I work for Dr. Elias Thorne,” the lawyer said smoothly. “Arthur was just the bankroll. Elias is the architect. And Elias doesn't like loose ends. Especially ghosts who come back from the dead to ruin a very lucrative thirty-year operation.”
He cocked the gun.
“Put the gun down,” a new voice ordered.
The heavy oak door to the kitchen swung open.
A man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a simple black catering uniform. He was the head chef who had been preparing the appetizers for Carolina’s party. I had briefly noticed him when I first arrived—he had been quietly polishing glasses, completely ignoring the drama.
But he wasn't holding a polishing cloth anymore.
He was holding a massive, gleaming chef’s knife.
And wrapped around his left wrist, clearly visible beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his uniform, was a delicate, heavy silver chain.
Dangling from the chain was my father’s silver pocket watch.
The lawyer swung the gun toward the chef. “Who the hell are you?”
The chef didn't flinch. He looked at the lawyer with eyes that were terrifyingly calm, a familiar shade of deep, piercing green.
May you like
My eyes.
“My name is Julian,” the chef said, his voice a low, steady baritone. He looked past the gun, his eyes locking directly onto mine. “And you’re pointing a gun at my sister.”
