Chapter 3
I should have gone directly to the hospital.
Marcus wanted me in the car.
Arthur wanted me gone before the situation became uglier.
My doctor was already telling me over the phone that repeated cramping after sudden cold exposure and emotional stress needed to be checked immediately.
But one sentence had stopped me.
They’ve been watching you for almost four years.
Four years.
Long before Brendan filed for divorce.
Long before Jessica.
Long before Diane began openly calling me a parasite.
I turned back.
Brendan looked terrified.
Not confused.
Terrified.
That mattered.
“What did you know?”
“Nothing.”
The answer came too quickly.
I stared at him.
“Try again.”
“I said I don’t know.”
Arthur stepped beside me.
“Cassidy, the hospital first.”
“I need one answer.”
“You need a doctor.”
I looked at Brendan.
“Four years ago, we were still married.”
He said nothing.
“We were trying to have a child.”
His jaw tightened.
I remembered those years.
The appointments.
The negative tests.
The nights I cried quietly in the bathroom because I thought something was wrong with me.
Brendan had held me.
He had kissed my forehead.
He had promised we were a team.
At least, that was what I had believed.
“Why were you investigating me?”
“I wasn’t.”
Diane stood.
“This is absurd.”
Arthur turned toward her.
“The files are stored under a directory created with your executive credentials.”
Her face twitched.
Someone guilty rarely fears the accusation.
They fear the details.
I saw that fear now.
“Credentials get stolen,” she said.
Arthur gave a humorless smile.
“Yes. Fortunately, authentication logs exist.”
Jessica grabbed Brendan’s arm.
“What did you do?”
He yanked away.
“Stop acting like you know anything.”
Her expression shifted.
A crack appeared in the polished confidence she had worn all night.
“Brendan, you told me she was crazy.”
“I said stop.”
“You told me she stalked you.”
“Jessica.”
“You told me she refused to accept the divorce.”
My chest tightened.
I looked at her.
“When did he tell you that?”
She hesitated.
“Last year.”
“We were still married last year.”
Her face fell.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He said you had been separated for eighteen months.”
“We separated nine months ago.”
She stared at Brendan.
The room became painfully quiet.
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Then I remembered her laughing while filthy ice water ran down my pregnant body.
Compassion did not require amnesia.
Brendan rubbed both hands over his face.
“This is getting twisted.”
“No,” I said. “It’s getting clear.”
Another cramp hit.
Hard.
My hand flew to the table.
Marcus was beside me immediately.
“That’s enough.”
This time I did not argue.
I let him guide me toward the door.
Behind me, Diane said, “Cassidy, be reasonable.”
I stopped.
For six years, reasonable had meant silent.
Reasonable meant smiling when she insulted my clothes.
Reasonable meant forgiving Brendan for forgetting my birthday because he was “under pressure.”
Reasonable meant signing documents without asking why.
Reasonable meant allowing them to make me small so they could remain comfortable.
I turned.
“I was reasonable for six years.”
Diane’s eyes widened.
“Tonight you get consequences.”
Then I left.
The drive to St. Catherine’s took fourteen minutes.
It felt like fourteen hours.
Marcus sat in front.
Arthur sat beside me.
My wet dress was wrapped in a heavy blanket someone from security had brought.
The baby kicked twice.
Then went quiet.
Too quiet.
“Arthur.”
He looked over.
“She stopped moving.”
His face changed.
He called the hospital again.
I pressed both hands against my stomach.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
Nothing.
“Please.”
Arthur looked out the window.
He was giving me privacy.
Or hiding his fear.
I rubbed the place where she usually pushed against me.
“Mommy needs you to kick.”
Nothing.
My throat closed.
Money suddenly meant nothing.
Protocol 7 meant nothing.
Ardent meant nothing.
I would have handed Diane every share I owned for one kick.
“Come on.”
Then I felt it.
A small movement.
Weak.
But there.
I closed my eyes.
Arthur exhaled.
“Good?”
I nodded.
“She moved.”
At the hospital, they brought me through a private entrance.
Within minutes I was in a room with monitors around my stomach.
A nurse named Tasha held my hand while the doctor studied the fetal heart rate.
I watched every change in her expression.
Finally, Dr. Patel turned toward me.
“The heartbeat is strong.”
I started crying.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
The tears simply came.
I covered my face.
“She’s okay?”
“She appears to be okay. You’re having uterine irritability, but I’m not seeing active labor right now.”
“Right now?”
“We’ll monitor you.”
I nodded.
The door opened.
Arthur entered after receiving permission.
He stood near the wall.
I wiped my face.
“What did they find?”
Dr. Patel looked at him.
Arthur hesitated.
“Cassidy, maybe this can wait.”
“No.”
The doctor touched my arm.
“Stress isn’t helping.”
“I’m more stressed not knowing.”
She studied me.
Then sighed.
“Five minutes.”
Arthur came closer.
“The archive contains reports from two private investigators.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“What were they looking for?”
“At first? Your financial history.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“They couldn’t find it.”
“No.”
Of course they couldn’t.
My personal fortune was protected through trusts, private holding companies, and layers of confidentiality designed after my father died.
The public knew the Vale family controlled Ardent.
Almost nobody knew which Vale.
I had deliberately disappeared from photographs after college.
Arthur continued.
“Then the investigation changed.”
“How?”
“They started tracking your medical appointments.”
My entire body went cold.
“Why?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Keep going.”
“They tracked your fertility clinic.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
Brendan knew how painful those appointments had been.
He had driven me to some of them.
Had his family been watching from another car?
“Anything else?”
Arthur glanced at Dr. Patel.
She frowned.
“Mr. Hale.”
I looked at him.
“Tell me.”
He took a breath.
“There are references to something called Project Cradle.”
The monitor beside me continued its steady rhythm.
My daughter’s heartbeat.
Fast.
Alive.
“What is Project Cradle?”
“We don’t know.”
“Who created it?”
“The earliest document we found has Diane Morrison’s initials.”
I stared at him.
My former mother-in-law had tracked my fertility treatment.
Named a project after a baby.
And hidden it on a private corporate server.
There was no innocent explanation.
“Where’s Brendan?”
“At the house.”
“Security?”
“Watching everyone.”
“Don’t let him leave.”
Arthur nodded.
“Already done.”
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A message from Brendan.
PLEASE CALL ME.
Then another.
YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.
Then another.
MY MOTHER DID THINGS I NEVER AGREED TO.
My heart stopped.
Arthur saw my face.
“What?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the messages.
His expression darkened.
“Don’t respond.”
I took the phone back.
For once, I agreed.
Another message appeared.
CASS, I SWEAR I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SHE WAS REALLY DOING.
Then:
SHE SAID SHE WAS PROTECTING ME.
Then:
PLEASE DON’T LET ARTHUR OPEN PROJECT CRADLE.
Arthur and I looked at each other.
He immediately called the forensic team.
“Open it now.”
He listened.
“No. Override Morrison permissions.”
Another pause.
“Use founder authorization.”
He looked at me.
I gave him a nod.
“Yes,” he said. “Level seven access.”
The call lasted less than a minute.
Then we waited.
My daughter’s heartbeat filled the room.
Forty seconds later, Arthur’s phone buzzed.
He opened the file.
His eyes moved across the screen.
Then stopped.
“What?” I whispered.
He did not answer.
“Arthur.”
His face had gone gray.
I had known Arthur since I was nineteen.
He had handled my father’s estate.
He had watched me bury both parents.
He had sat beside me during hostile acquisitions, lawsuits, and board revolts.
I had never seen him look like that.
“What does it say?”
He lowered the phone.
“Cassidy…”
“Say it.”
“Project Cradle wasn’t about finding out whether you could have a baby.”
My skin prickled.
“What was it about?”
Arthur looked at the fetal monitor.
Then at me.
“It was about making sure that if you did have one…”
He stopped.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“If I did have one, what?”
May you like
His next words changed everything.
“They wanted control of the child.”
