Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT THEIR SON ARRIVED
The ambulance ride lasted thirty-seven minutes.
Marcus experienced every second.
Khloe lay on the stretcher gripping his hand.
Adrian communicated with the hospital.
Amelia remained with Julian under federal protection.
Khloe’s contractions intensified.
“Marcus.”
“I’m here.”
“I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
She looked at him.
He had spent years pretending fear was something weaker men displayed.
Khloe had cured him of that stupidity.
“Don’t tell me everything will be fine.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me something real.”
Marcus leaned closer.
“I’m not leaving.”
That was real.
She nodded.
“Good.”
At the hospital, a neonatal team waited.
Medication slowed the contractions temporarily.
Doctors hoped to delay delivery.
Hours passed.
Then Khloe developed bleeding.
Adrian’s expression changed.
Marcus recognized it.
“What?”
“We may need to deliver.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Khloe closed her eyes.
“Thirty-one weeks.”
Adrian took her hand.
“Babies born at thirty-one weeks often do very well with appropriate neonatal care.”
Often.
Not always.
Marcus hated statistical language when it applied to his child.
Khloe whispered:
“Do whatever keeps him safest.”
Everything moved quickly after that.
Marcus changed into surgical clothing.
Khloe was prepared for an emergency C-section.
Before entering the operating room, her phone rang.
Eleanor.
Khloe looked at Marcus.
“Answer.”
He did.
His mother’s voice trembled.
“Is she okay?”
“The baby is coming.”
Silence.
“Marcus…”
“Not now.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Tell Khloe I’m sorry.”
“She knows.”
“And tell her—”
Eleanor’s voice broke.
“Tell her she’s already a better mother than I was.”
Khloe heard.
She reached for the phone.
“Eleanor.”
Silence.
Then:
“Khloe?”
“I’m angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“But Marcus needs his mother tonight.”
Marcus looked at his wife.
Even now.
Even terrified.
She was making room for someone else.
Eleanor started crying.
“I’m coming.”
“No secrets,” Khloe said.
“What?”
“If you come back into this family, no more secrets.”
“I promise.”
Khloe ended the call.
Marcus stared at her.
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I married you.”
“Evidence.”
She smiled.
Then the doors opened.
The operation began.
Marcus sat beside her head.
He did not watch the surgery.
He watched Khloe.
“Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“Our first date.”
“You hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you.”
“You told me billionaires were just men with expensive insulation from consequences.”
“You remembered.”
“I fell in love immediately.”
“You argued for another two hours.”
“I needed dignity.”
Khloe laughed weakly.
Then Adrian’s voice changed.
“Almost there.”
Marcus stopped breathing.
Seconds stretched.
Then—
A cry.
Small.
Sharp.
Alive.
Khloe burst into tears.
Marcus did too.
Their son was lifted briefly into view before the neonatal team took him.
“Is he okay?”
Marcus asked.
No immediate answer.
“Adrian.”
“He’s breathing.”
“With help?”
“Yes.”
Khloe cried harder.
“Can I see him?”
“Soon.”
Their son weighed three pounds, eleven ounces.
They named him Ethan Adrian Thorne.
Marcus had planned to argue about the middle name.
That night he did not.
Ethan went directly to the NICU.
Khloe recovered.
Marcus divided himself between two rooms.
His wife.
His son.
At three in the morning, Julian arrived with Amelia.
Eleanor came separately.
The waiting room became the strangest family reunion imaginable.
Julian and Eleanor stood ten feet apart.
Neither moved.
Amelia solved it.
“Grandma.”
Eleanor looked down.
Amelia ran to her.
Eleanor dropped to her knees.
For the first time, she held the granddaughter she had hidden but never allowed herself to openly love.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor whispered.
Amelia touched her pearls.
“Pretty.”
Children were mercifully uninterested in inherited guilt.
Julian watched.
Eleanor looked up at him.
“Julian.”
He did not answer.
She stood.
“I don’t know how to apologize for thirty-six years.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“You let me believe Marcus replaced me.”
“I know.”
“You destroyed my letter.”
“Yes.”
“You lied to him about me.”
“Yes.”
Julian’s eyes filled.
“Why?”
“Fear.”
“That excuse gets old.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor nodded.
“It does.”
She did not ask forgiveness.
That helped.
Julian eventually sat.
Not beside her.
Not far away either.
At dawn, Marcus entered the NICU.
Ethan was impossibly small.
Tubes.
Monitors.
Tiny fingers.
Marcus placed one finger through the incubator opening.
Ethan’s hand closed around it.
That destroyed whatever emotional control Marcus still possessed.
“Hey.”
His voice cracked.
“I’m your dad.”
He laughed through tears.
“I’m apparently collecting children unexpectedly.”
Khloe, brought in by wheelchair, smiled.
“Terrible joke.”
“I’m under pressure.”
She reached toward Ethan.
“He’s beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“Small.”
“Temporary.”
“Stubborn.”
“Genetic.”
“From me.”
“Obviously.”
Then Amelia entered with Julian.
She stared through the incubator.
“That my brother?”
“Yes,” Khloe said.
“Very little.”
“For now.”
Amelia frowned.
“Can he play?”
“Not yet.”
“Boring.”
Marcus laughed.
A nurse politely hid her smile.
For the first time in days, the room contained no conspiracy.
No inheritance.
No surveillance footage.
Only family.
Then Adrian arrived carrying an envelope.
Marcus groaned.
“If that contains another secret sibling, burn it.”
Adrian almost smiled.
“No.”
“What is it?”
“DNA confirmation.”
Marcus looked at Amelia.
“Do we need it?”
“Legally.”
He opened it.
Probability of parentage exceeded 99.99 percent.
Marcus and Khloe.
Amelia was theirs.
Khloe cried again.
Marcus held her.
Then Adrian handed over a second report.
“What now?”
“Julian.”
Marcus looked at his brother.
“What?”
Adrian’s expression was complicated.
“We tested the original neonatal samples recovered from Voss.”
Julian became still.
“Which baby was sick?”
Adrian answered.
“Neither.”
Silence.
Marcus stared.
“What?”
“The heart defect story was fabricated.”
Eleanor covered her mouth.
Julian whispered:
“Why?”
Adrian continued.
“Harrison did not remove Julian because he was sick.”
“Then why?”
Eleanor looked terrified.
“I don’t know.”
Adrian handed Marcus another document.
A paternity report from thirty-six years earlier.
Marcus read it.
Then read it again.
Both boys were Eleanor’s biological sons.
But only one was Harrison Thorne’s.
Marcus looked at Julian.
Julian looked back.
“Which one?”
Marcus could barely speak.
Adrian answered:
“Marcus.”
Julian went pale.
“So who was my father?”
Eleanor began sobbing.
Julian turned toward her.
“Who?”
She whispered a name nobody expected.
“Vittorio Rossi.”
The room went silent.
Isabella Rossi was not simply the daughter of the man who had manipulated Julian’s life.
May you like
She was Julian’s half sister.
And Vittorio had known from the beginning.
