The Mercedes smells like new leather and Kael's voice loops in my head. 'Because you're mine.'
Like I'm a book on his shelf, locked away while he plays house with someone else. The numbness is a welcome relief, so profound that I don't even question getting into a stranger's car. I just... don't care.
Manhattan blurs past the tinted windows—streets I've walked, neighborhoods I thought I knew. Everything looks different from inside this car. Higher. More distant.
Like I'm already becoming someone else and I haven't even figured out who that is yet.
"My parents are dead," I say again, testing the words against reality. "I watched them lower their caskets when I was fifteen. I’m an orphan."
I watch the man driving. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, dark and assessing, set in a face defined by a scar running from temple to jaw. He holds the wheel with a relaxed grip, a stark contrast to the violence that mark implies.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. Dark and assessing, set in a face that's been through something—the scar running from temple to jaw tells a story I don't know yet but can recognize.
The kind that speaks of violence survived, not inflicted.
"Your adoptive parents died," he says, voice steady and matter-of-fact, like he's not currently detonating my entire existence. "Your biological father has been searching for you since you were kidnapped as a baby."
The word hits me like a physical thing. "Kidnapped?"
He pauses, letting that sink in before continuing.
"My name is Caelen Rhys. I’m Alexander Welch's right hand—his most trusted executor. I've been watching over you these past months, making sure you were safe."
“Watching me,” I repeat, the words tasting like ash. “You watched me cry in a hotel in Queens. You watched his family call me barren.”
“We were ensuring Kael Dareth couldn't make you disappear,” he corrects quietly. “My boss needed to see exactly what kind of man his daughter had married.”
I don't know what to do with that. Don't know if I'm grateful or furious or just too fucking tired to feel anything anymore.
We pull up to a building that makes the Dareth estate look middle-class. All glass and steel reaching toward the sky, the kind of place that has security systems more advanced than some governments.
Caelen parks in a private garage with a lot of other cars, leading me to an elevator that requires both a key card and a fingerprint to operate.
"Where are we?"
"Home," he says simply. "If you choose it, of course."
The elevator opens directly into a penthouse that makes me feel about two inches tall. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park—the same park I used to walk through when I couldn't afford the subway.
A man stands at the window, silhouetted against the Manhattan skyline. He turns, and I actually fucking gasp. I'm staring at my own eyes, the exact same shade of green Kael used to love, set in the face of a powerful stranger.
Alexander Welch—it has to be him—just stares, his hand coming up as if to reach for me before falling back to his side. The silence stretches until it hurts.
“'Olivia,” he whispers, the name sounding broken.
He takes a step forward. Stops. His jaw works like he's trying to find words that don't exist in any language.
"I…” His voice cracks completely, and this titan of industry presses a hand to his mouth, physically holding back an emotion that might drown us both. “Twenty years,” he finally breathes. “God, twenty years."
I don't know what to do with this. Don't know where to look.
This stranger is coming apart in front of me and I can't process it. Can't fit it into my brain alongside everything else that's shattered tonight.
He moves to a side table, his hands visibly shaking as he picks up a silver frame. He brings it to me like it's something sacred, something that might crumble if he's not careful.
“You have your mother's face,” he manages, his voice raw.
The photo shows a beautiful woman holding a toddler. Both of them laughing, pure joy radiating from the image like light.
The toddler has my eyes. My nose, my cheeks but more squishy. My exact fucking face, just decades younger and infinitely happier.
"That's you," he says. His voice breaks again. "Two weeks before you were taken from us…"
My knees give out. Literally just buckle like someone cut the strings. Caelen catches me—he must have been ready for it—guides me to a chair before I face-plant on the marble floor.
"You were four when you were taken," Alexander continues.
He sits across from me but keeps distance, like I'm a wild animal he might spook.
"Kidnapped by your mother's ex-lover after she died. He blamed me for her death. Said I destroyed her with stress, with the business. He was obsessed. Unstable."
The fragmented memories click into place. The crying woman I sometimes dream about. A different house, a different name that never felt right in my mouth.
"We searched for twenty years," his voice breaks again on the number. "Every lead went cold. Every trail ended in nothing. You were hidden in the foster system under a false identity. When your adoptive parents died and you aged out, you finally left a paper trail we could follow."
His jaw clenches, and the commanding presence shifts into something dangerous.
“Three months before your wedding to Kael Dareth.”
The timeline hits me like a physical blow. “You've known for months.”
“Yes,” he says, his green eyes turning to ice. “And I've been watching what that bastard has done to my daughter ever since.”