The office felt like a tomb. Silent. Suffocating. Thick with the horror we'd uncovered the night before.
I arrived at 8 AM to find Alan already at his desk, still wearing yesterday's suit. Same tie. Same shirt. He looked like hell—hair disheveled, jaw dark with stubble, eyes bloodshot from staring at his screen all night.
The Man of Glass had officially shattered. Welcome to the club, buddy.
He'd been trying to crack Protocol 1810. Military-grade encryption. Hours of failed attempts. I could see the evidence scattered around his desk—empty espresso cups, crumpled printouts, the kind of manic research spiral that screamed "I've lost my goddamn mind but I'm functioning anyway."
Join the party. I'd been there since approximately 9 PM last night when I'd realized my daughter was a lab rat for her own great-grandfather.
He didn't look up when I entered. Just kept typing, his fingers moving across the keyboard with mechanical precision.
I set a cup of black coffee on his desk. "You need to sleep."
"I need to get into that file."
Classic. Workaholics gonna workaholic, even when their secret daughter is being used for genetic experiments.
"Alan—"
My phone exploded with sound, cutting me off. Sofia's name flashing on the screen.
My heart stopped.
I answered with shaking hands. "Sofia?"
"Élise." Her voice was tight, professional-panic that made my blood freeze. "You need to come now. Amélie crashed. Her fever spiked and her blood pressure is dropping. It's—it's bad."
The world tilted. "I'm coming. I'm—"
Alan was already grabbing his keys before I could finish. He'd heard enough from my expression.
"We're on our way," I said into the phone, then hung up.
The drive to Hôpital Américain de Neuilly was a blur of Paris traffic and panic. Alan drove like he was trying to outrun death itself—weaving through lanes, running yellow lights, his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack teeth.
Turns out discovering you have a secret daughter who's dying really does wonders for your driving aggression. Who knew?
My mind was racing faster than his Bentley. Three days. Henri had ordered the dosage reduced three days ago. Three days after Alan found the birth certificate. Three days after Henri would have realized his experiment was about to be exposed.
Coincidence? Not fucking likely.
This was damage control. This was Henri covering his tracks by—what? Killing her faster? Seeing how quickly she'd deteriorate without the full protocol?
My hands were shaking so badly I had to press them between my knees.
Neither of us spoke. The silence was filled with my ragged breathing and the sound of my heart trying to escape my chest.
We burst through the hospital doors like we were storming a building.
Then Alan just stopped. Froze mid-stride in the middle of the hallway.
I followed his gaze. Through the window of room 104, a small figure lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and machines that beeped steadily.
His daughter. First time seeing her.
His hand came up slowly to the glass. Hovering. Not touching. Like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter something irreplaceable.
The Man of Glass was cracking right in front of me. I watched his jaw work, muscle ticking. His throat moved like he was trying to swallow something too big. His eyes went bright—wet—before he blinked it away fast.
"She has your nose," I said quietly.
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Just stood there staring at the five-year-old he'd never known existed until twelve hours ago, looking like someone had reached into his chest and rearranged everything that mattered.
Sofia appeared beside us, her face grim and exhausted. "Thank God you're here," she breathed, pulling me into a quick hug. The movement seemed to snap Alan out of whatever emotional crisis he was having.
"I don't understand it," Sofia continued, her voice strained. "She was responding beautifully to the protocol, and then three days ago—"
"What happened three days ago?" Alan's voice was sharp. Cutting. All business now.
Sofia blinked, confused. "What?"
"The protocol." He stepped closer, invading her space with predatory focus. "Did you change anything?"
Her face went white. "How could you possibly know that? It's confidential medical—"
"I'm her father." The words echoed down the sterile hallway with absolute authority. "And I know exactly who you work for. Did you change her dosage?"
Sofia looked at me, her eyes terrified. Pleading. "Élise... I got a direct order. From Henri Delaunay's office."
Ice flooded my veins. "Sofia. What did he tell you to do?"
"He ordered me to reduce her primary dosage by fifty percent." Her voice cracked, tears welling. "He said it was a new phase of the trial. To observe regression patterns before introducing the next stage."
"Observe regression." Alan's voice was deadly quiet. "And what happened after you reduced the dose?"
"Her fever came back within twelve hours." Sofia was crying now, professional composure completely shattered. "Her body's failing without the full protocol. I protested—I told them it was dangerous, that it would undo all our progress. But they said if I didn't comply, they'd pull her from the trial entirely."
The beeping of the heart monitor in the next room suddenly felt deafening. A countdown. A ticking clock.
"He's not observing," I said, my voice hollow. "He's testing. Seeing how long she can last."
Alan turned to Sofia, his expression carved from ice. "How much of the full-dose serum do you have left?"
"In the hospital? Maybe forty-eight hours' worth. If I use it all."
"Where does the main supply come from?"
"Their central lab. In Geneva."
Alan nodded once. Decisive. Final. He pulled out his phone. "Keep her on the full dose. Lie to them. Tell them you're following the protocol exactly. Buy us time."
He turned to me. "You stay here. With our daughter."
"No." I stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Absolutely not."
"Élise—"
"He did this to both of us." My voice was shaking but steady. "He used my body to create her. And now he's using her body as a test subject. I'm not sitting here while you fight him alone."
"This could get dangerous—"
"I don't care." I grabbed his arm. "She's our daughter, Alan. Ours. We're going to Geneva. Together. Now."
He stared at me for a long moment. Searching my face for something—doubt, maybe, or fear he could use to make me stay.
He found steel instead.
"Alright." He nodded. "We fly."
Sofia looked between us, understanding dawning. "You're going to the lab. You're going to—"
"Get answers," Alan said flatly. "And if they try to stop us, they'll regret it."
He pulled out his phone again, already dialing. "This is Delaunay. Prepare the jet. We leave in thirty minutes."
I looked through the window into Amélie's room. She was so small in that hospital bed, tubes and wires connecting her to machines that beeped and hummed. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her breathing shallow.
My daughter. Our daughter.
"I need five minutes with her," I said.
Alan nodded. "Five minutes. Then we leave."
I pushed open the door and walked to her bedside. Her hand was tiny in mine, hot and fragile.
Like holding a bird. Like holding something that could break if I squeezed too hard or fly away if I let go.
Five years. Five years I'd kept her safe. Kept her hidden. Protected her from exactly this—from being a Delaunay, from being a pawn in their fucked-up family games.
And I'd failed. Spectacularly.
"Maman?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here, mon ange." I brushed hair from her forehead, trying not to notice how hot her skin felt. Fever. Again. Because Henri wanted to watch her regress. "I'm here."
"Tired," she mumbled.
Yeah, kid. Join the club. I'm tired too. Tired of running, tired of lying, tired of pretending everything's fine when it's all falling apart.
"I know, baby. I know." Tears burned my eyes. "But you have to keep fighting, okay? Just a little longer. Maman's going to fix this."
"Promise?"
The word broke me. Clean through. Like a hammer to glass.
"Promise."
I kissed her forehead and stood, forcing myself to walk away even though every instinct screamed to stay.
Alan was waiting in the hallway, car keys in hand, his expression grim.
"Let's go get our daughter back," he said.
We walked out of the hospital together, side by side, united for the first time since that masked gala five years ago.