Chapter 7 - My Mother Was Never DeadI did not sleep that night.

Neither did Alexander.

At three in the morning, we stood outside the west wing.

The brass key fit the final locked door.

The room beyond smelled faintly of lavender.

Old photographs covered the walls.

A sewing machine sat beneath a white sheet.

A wooden rocking chair rested beside the window.

And on the desk was a photograph of my mother.

Alive.

Older.

Holding a baby.

I stared at it.

“That isn't possible.”

Alexander picked up the frame.

“Who is the baby?”

I stepped closer.

It was me.

But the date was wrong.

The photograph was dated two years after my mother supposedly died.

My legs weakened.

“Maybe the date was changed.”

Alexander opened a drawer.

Inside was a stack of letters.

All addressed to me.

None had been sent.

The first was from my mother.

Emma,

If you ever find this room, then Lucy failed to keep the promise I asked her to make.

My hands trembled.

The next line destroyed the story I had believed for my entire life.

I am alive.

I sat down.

Alexander crouched beside me.

“What happened to her?”

I read the rest.

My mother had worked for the Sterling family.

Not as a maid.

As a legal investigator.

She had discovered financial crimes connected to Nathaniel Sterling.

When she tried to expose him, she was threatened.

She fled.

But before she could disappear, Eleanor found her.

My mother was forced into hiding.

Lucy knew.

Alexander’s wife knew.

And eventually, I knew.

But not consciously.

Because when I was eleven, my father told me my mother had died.

He lied.

Or someone made him lie.

I turned another page.

My mother had written:

Alexander is not your enemy.

I looked at him.

He had gone still.

The next sentence read:

His father is.

Then:

Eleanor believes Nathaniel's empire belongs to her. She will use Alexander's grief, his son, and every woman around him to secure control.

Alexander stood.

“My father has been dead for eighteen years.”

My mother seemed to answer the question before we asked it.

Do not trust a death certificate.

I looked at Alexander.

He shook his head.

“This is insane.”

Then came the final letter.

Emma, there is one thing I never told you.

The page was stained.

Noah was not supposed to survive.

My heart stopped.

Alexander looked at the sentence again.

“Noah?”

My mother continued.

Your sister discovered that Nathaniel had planned to take control of Noah's inheritance through a guardianship clause. The child was the key.

I covered my mouth.

Alexander whispered:

“My father wanted my son.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of the trust.”

Before I could answer, something crashed downstairs.

We ran.

The hallway lights were on.

The front door stood open.

Security guards were unconscious.

And Noah was gone.

I screamed.

“NOAH!”

Alexander ran through the mansion.

“Lock every gate!”

He checked the nursery.

Empty.

The garden.

Empty.

The kitchen.

Empty.

Then he stopped.

His phone rang.

He answered.

A man's voice spoke.

“You have one hour.”

Alexander's face turned to stone.

“What do you want?”

“Your son.”

“Where is he?”

“Come alone.”

Alexander demanded, “Who are you?”

The voice replied:

“You've spent eighteen years believing I was dead.”

The call ended.

Alexander looked at me.

I already knew.

Because my mother's letter had warned us.

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Nathaniel Sterling was not dead.

And he had just taken his grandson.