Chapter 4 - The Mother Who Wasn't Dead
By morning, sleep had become a rumor. Ethan’s people moved us twice before sunrise, finally settling on a secure floor of the Romano Hotel. I stood at the window in borrowed clothes while Manhattan woke beneath me, ordinary and bright, completely unaware that my dead father had just waved at a security camera.
Victoria joined me with coffee.
“You don’t drink caffeine?” she asked.
“I drink whatever this week requires.”
She handed me the cup.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “You and Ethan aren’t really together.”
She nearly spilled her coffee.
“What makes you say that?”
“You don’t touch him unless someone is watching. You weren’t jealous yesterday. And he looks at you like a business contract.”
“That is almost insulting.”
“Is it wrong?”
She sighed. “No.”
“So why?”
“My father arranged appearances. Dinners. charity events. photographers. Ethan needed access to people who would never sit across a table from a Romano. My family needed his money.”
“You were pretending to date?”
“Yes.”
“Were?”
She stared into her coffee. “Until my father bruised me and I realized I was becoming another asset he thought he owned.”
I looked at her wrist.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I stayed too long because I thought control was the price of privilege.”
“That sounds familiar.”
We exchanged a look.
Maybe I had misjudged her.
The door opened. Daniel entered with a laptop under one arm.
“I cracked part of the Sinclair drive.”
Ethan followed behind him. “Show us.”
Daniel opened a file.
PROJECT PROVIDENCE - GENERATIONAL PAIRING INDEX.
My stomach twisted.
Rows of codes appeared. R-01. B-01. S-02. M-03. Dates. Hospitals. Genetic markers.
“What is this?” I asked.
Daniel shook his head. “A catalog.”
“Of people?”
“Yes.”
Ethan pointed at R-01. “That’s me.”
Daniel nodded.
“And B-01 is Isabella.”
I looked at Victoria. “What are you?”
Her face had gone pale.
Daniel searched.
S-01.
VICTORIA SINCLAIR.
She stepped back. “No.”
Ethan closed the laptop halfway. “Enough.”
“No,” Victoria said. “Open it.”
Daniel did.
The file listed her birth hospital, childhood medical evaluations, school results, and something labeled REPRODUCTIVE COMPATIBILITY.
She covered her mouth.
“My father tracked me.”
“So did mine,” I whispered.
Ethan looked at the screen. “This isn’t research. It’s breeding.”
Nobody contradicted him.
Daniel clicked another folder. It contained scanned correspondence from twenty-eight years earlier between Thomas Bennett, Richard Sinclair, and Gianni Romano.
My father. Victoria’s father. Ethan’s father.
All connected.
One letter began: The first viable Romano and Bennett lines should remain separated until maturity.
My skin crawled.
Separated until maturity.
Ethan read the next line aloud. “Pairing should occur only after independent social development.”
I looked at him. “Our marriage was planned.”
His expression hardened. “Apparently.”
“No.”
I paced away.
“I met you at the Met because someone changed my table.”
Ethan stared at me.
“I remember.”
“My father was already supposedly dead.”
“Which means someone else arranged it.”
“Your father?”
“Gianni was dead by then.”
“Richard?” Victoria whispered.
Daniel clicked another scan. A handwritten note appeared.
PAIRING OBSERVATION APPROVED BY T. BENNETT.
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently being dead didn’t interfere with Dad’s paperwork.”
A knock sounded.
Ethan drew his gun before the second knock.
A security guard opened the door. “Doctor.”
A woman entered carrying a medical bag.
Not Claire Vale.
A real obstetrician, Dr. Naomi Chen, examined me in the adjoining suite. She confirmed that Noah—though I still hadn’t told anyone his name—was healthy.
“Your blood pressure is high,” she said.
“My father came back from the dead.”
“That would do it.”
I almost laughed.
“Can you confirm the baby is biologically mine?”
She looked surprised. “Why would you ask that?”
“Long story.”
“A standard exam can’t prove conception history. We can do genetic testing after birth.”
“No outside labs.”
“Then options are limited.”
“I understand.”
After she left, Ethan sat beside the bed.
“Are you going to ask again?” I said.
“Ask what?”
“If he’s yours.”
His face changed.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because right now he’s yours, and that’s enough.”
That answer hurt in a place I didn’t expect.
I looked away.
“He is yours.”
Silence.
Ethan did not move.
I looked at him. “I knew from the beginning.”
His eyes locked on mine. “You knew.”
“Yes.”
“For eight months.”
“Yes.”
He stood. “You let me believe—”
“I let you believe nothing. I left.”
“You told your lawyer paternity was uncertain.”
“Because I was afraid of you.”
His anger stopped.
“I knew exactly what you would do,” I continued. “You would find me. Put guards on every door. Decide where I lived. Decide where I delivered. Decide what name went on the birth certificate.”
“I would protect my child.”
“You would control everything around him.”
His jaw tightened.
“I missed seven months,” he said quietly.
The anger in me faltered.
“I didn’t know if I would ever see you again,” he continued. “Now I find out you were carrying my son the whole time.”
“I’m sorry that it hurts you.”
“But not sorry you left.”
“No.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
I stared at him. “Who are you?”
“Still me.”
“No. Ethan Romano doesn’t say ‘fair.’”
“He does after losing you.”
The words settled between us.
Before I could answer, Daniel entered without knocking.
“Problem.”
Ethan looked at him. “Another one?”
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
“She’s in New York.”
Ethan stood. “No. She’s in Tuscany.”
“Not anymore.”
Daniel held out his phone. “Alessandra Romano was admitted to Saint Agnes Hospital yesterday under the name Anna Rossi.”
“For what?”
“Poisoning.”
Ethan’s face drained.
I sat up. “Who poisoned her?”
“We don’t know.”
Daniel hesitated.
“What?” Ethan demanded.
“She asked for Isabella.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“And she left a message.”
“What message?”
Daniel looked at my stomach.
“She said, ‘Do not let the baby be born.’”
The room went silent.
Then another voice came from the doorway.
“Because she knows what happens if he is.”
We all turned.
My mother stood there.
Catherine Bennett.
Alive.
May you like
Pale.
And holding the same silver rattle that had shattered in the boutique.
