Chapter 2

The leather sofa in the West family study groaned under Thurston's weight. The room smelled of old books and cigar smoke. Stacks of paper covered the coffee table-bank statements, travel logs, medical records.

Thurston picked up a grainy photograph. It showed Darleen stepping off a plane four years ago, her face pale, her coat wrapped tight around her stomach. He grabbed a red pen and circled the date.

It matched perfectly. The exact week of Bernardo's birthday party on the yacht. The week Bernardo had woken up in his cabin, alone, with a blinding headache and a strange bite mark on his chest.

Thurston tossed the photo onto the pile and reached for the secure phone on the table. He dialed the number he knew by heart.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

On the forty-second floor of the West Group headquarters, Bernardo sat at the head of a long mahogany table. The air in the conference room was freezing. A dozen executives stared at their laps, too terrified to breathe.

Bernardo pressed the accept button on his phone, his eyes never leaving the trembling man at the far end of the table.

"What?" Bernardo snapped.

"You have children," Thurston said without preamble.

Silence.

The scratching of Bernardo's pen stopped. The tip pressed down hard, tearing through the thick contract paper. Ink bled into the tear.

"Excuse me?" Bernardo's voice was dangerously soft.

"In Los Angeles," Thurston continued, his voice firm. "A boy and a girl. They look exactly like you did at that age."

Bernardo let out a short, cold laugh. He tossed the ruined pen onto the table. It clattered loudly.

"That's the most pathetic scam I've heard this year," Bernardo said. "I don't leave loose ends, Grandfather. You're getting senile."

"The boy has your eyes," Thurston pressed, ignoring the insult. "The girl is your spitting image. The mother knew your name."

Bernardo's jaw clenched. A muscle twitched under his skin. A flash of memory hit him-the smell of rain, a woman's soft cry, the searing pain in his chest. He pushed it away.

"Someone is feeding her information," Bernardo said, his tone absolute. "It's a setup. I want the name of the investigator who sold you this garbage."

"It is not garbage!" Thurston roared, slamming his fist onto the coffee table. "West blood does not walk the streets like beggars! You will acknowledge them!"

Bernardo stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall. The executives flinched.

"I will do no such thing," Bernardo said, his voice like ice. "I am not some fool to be tricked by a gold-digger."

"Then take a DNA test," Thurston challenged. "Prove me wrong."

"Fine," Bernardo snapped. "I'll send the legal team and the doctors. This will be sorted out by dinner."

"No." Thurston's voice was iron. "You will go yourself."

"I don't have time for field trips," Bernardo scoffed.

"If you do not go," Thurston said slowly, "I will rewrite the family trust. You will lose your voting shares in the holding company by tomorrow morning."

The line went dead silent. Bernardo stared out the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection glaring back at him. His chest heaved with suppressed rage.

"You're bluffing," Bernardo whispered.

"Try me," Thurston replied.

Bernardo's hand shot out. He hurled his phone across the room. It smashed against the glass wall, shattering into pieces of plastic and metal. The executives shrank further into their seats.

The door opened. His assistant peeked in, his face pale.

"Sir? Should we continue the meeting?"

"Cancel everything," Bernardo bit out. "Get me the security footage from the Leviathan. Four years ago. The night of the storm. Now."

The assistant scurried away. Bernardo walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. He unbuttoned his collar, his fingers brushing the faint, crescent-shaped scar on his chest. A bite mark. He couldn't remember how he got it. It drove him insane.

Miles away, in a dusty guest room of the Reynolds mansion, Darleen sat on the edge of an unmade bed. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of neglect. A single small duffel bag lay open beside her, its contents hastily packed before the flight. She had just pulled out a few of the children's emergency clothes to smooth the wrinkles when her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen showed a number with a 310 area code, but no name.

She picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Reynolds," a crisp, male voice said. "This is the chief counsel for the West Group. We have been informed of your claims. A medical team will arrive at your residence tomorrow morning at eight for DNA sampling."

Darleen stopped smoothing the tiny shirt in her hand. She held it tightly in her fist.

"Where is Bernardo?" she asked.

"Mr. West will not be present," the lawyer said, his tone dismissive. "This is a standard procedure. You will comply with the location and time specified."

"No," Darleen said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Darleen said, her voice steady. "I will not allow a team of strangers into my home to draw my children's blood. If Bernardo wants this test, he can bring his doctors and he can stand in the same room and watch."

"Ms. Reynolds, you are in no position to make demands," the lawyer warned.

"I'm not making a demand," Darleen said, her eyes fixed on Aria's sleeping form on the bed beside her. "I'm telling you a fact. No Bernardo, no test."

She hung up the phone. She tossed it onto the bed, her heart pounding. She knew Bernardo. She knew his pride. He would come. He would want to look her in the eye and call her a liar to her face.

And when he did, she would see the bite mark on his chest. She would know the truth.