Chapter 4: The Mother Who Never Died
Adrian Kane had faced armed men without blinking, ordered billion-dollar acquisitions over breakfast, and watched enemies beg for their lives without showing an ounce of mercy.
But when Margaret Ellis told him his mother might still be alive, he looked like a frightened seventeen-year-old boy again.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Margaret sat on the velvet sofa, clutching her purse with both hands. Marco stood near the door, while two additional guards watched the hallway. I sat beside Adrian, the gold locket trembling between my fingers.
“I can't tell you everything,” Margaret whispered.
“Not without showing you something first.””
Adrian placed the hospital photograph on the table.
“Start with this.””
Margaret looked at it and closed her eyes.
“Eleanor was brought to the Whitmore estate six months after the car accident. She was unconscious. Her face was badly bruised, and one of her legs was broken. Vincent told everyone she had died overseas, but I recognized her immediately.””
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“Why didn't you call me?””
“I tried.””
Margaret opened her purse and pulled out a faded envelope.
“I sent three letters to your father's house. All three came back unopened. Then a man visited my apartment and showed me photographs of my children leaving school.””
Her voice cracked.
“He said that if I ever mentioned Eleanor again, my children would disappear.””
Adrian's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“Who was the man?””
“I never learned his name. He had a scar on his right hand. A long one, running from his thumb to his wrist.””
Marco exchanged a glance with Adrian.
“Do you know someone who fits that description?”” I asked.
Adrian's face darkened.
“Vincent's personal security chief. Daniel Cross.””
Margaret nodded weakly.
“That was him.””
Adrian stood and walked toward the windows. The city stretched beneath us, bright and indifferent.
“Where was my mother taken?””
“The east wing of the Whitmore mansion. There was a private medical room there, hidden behind the library. Vincent hired doctors who never asked questions. They came at night and left before sunrise.””
“And Isabella?”” Adrian asked.
Margaret turned toward me.
“You were there, sweetheart. You were eight years old, and you knew something was wrong. Your mother told you to keep the locket hidden.””
A flash of memory struck me.
A woman kneeling in front of me, her fingers fastening a gold chain around my neck.
Whatever happens, Wren, you must remember that you are loved.
I gasped.
Adrian immediately crouched beside me.
“What is it?””
“My mother,” I whispered.
“She called me Wren.””
Margaret covered her mouth.
“Yes. Eleanor called you her little Wren because you used to sing to the birds outside your bedroom window.””
Tears blurred my vision.
For ten years, I'd believed Wren was simply the name I'd given myself because I couldn't remember anything else. Now the name felt like a thread connecting me to a life someone had deliberately ripped away.
“Why did I end up on the streets?”” I asked.
Margaret hesitated.
“Because you escaped.””
“From the fire?””
She nodded.
“Vincent planned to move you and Eleanor to another property the night the mansion burned. But Eleanor discovered what he intended to do. She hid evidence inside your locket, then helped you escape through a servants' passage.””
“Did she come with me?””
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“I don't know. I heard an explosion. Then the house was full of smoke. When I reached the passage, you were gone.””
I stared at her.
“You let an eight-year-old girl run into the night alone?””
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Margaret flinched.
“I searched for you until Vincent's men caught me. They told me you were dead. They showed me photographs of the burned bedroom and said there was nothing left to find.””
“But you didn't believe them.””
“No.”” Margaret reached for my hand.
“I couldn't. Your mother had made me promise that if you ever survived, I would find you.””
Adrian returned to the table.
“Then why now?””
Margaret looked toward the windows.
“Because yesterday, someone called my apartment and said the Whitmore girl had been found.””
Silence settled over the room.
“Who called?”” Adrian asked.
“I couldn't recognize the voice. The caller told me to come here and bring the locket.””
Marco stepped forward.
“Did the caller tell you where to find us?””
Margaret shook her head.
“No. They said Adrian Kane would be at the salon.””
Adrian's eyes narrowed.
That meant someone had known where I would be before I'd even arrived.
Someone had arranged our meeting.
Someone wanted him to discover my identity.
“Boss,” Marco said, checking his phone, “we need to leave. I've just received a message from one of our men outside Vincent's townhouse.””
Adrian took the phone.
The photograph showed a black sedan parked across the street from his uncle's residence.
A woman was being helped into the back seat by two men.
Even through the grainy image, I recognized her.
The dark hair. The delicate face. The small silver bracelet on her wrist.
The same woman from the miniature photograph inside my locket.
“That's my mother,” Adrian whispered.
Marco zoomed in.
“The timestamp is twenty minutes ago.””
Adrian grabbed his coat.
“Get the cars ready.””
Margaret rose unsteadily.
“You can't go there. Vincent will be expecting you.””
Adrian looked at her.
“He's had ten years to hide my mother from me. He's had ten years to turn my childhood into a lie.””
His voice dropped.
“He doesn't get another minute.””
I stood too.
“I'm coming with you.””
“No.””
“Adrian—”
“You have no idea what Vincent will do if he sees you.””
I lifted the locket.
“He already knows I'm alive. Running won't change that.””
Adrian stared at me, torn between protecting me and acknowledging the truth.
Finally, he nodded.
“But you stay beside Marco. No matter what happens.””
As we hurried toward the private elevator, Margaret grabbed my wrist.
“Isabella, listen to me. If you find Eleanor, ask her about the nursery.””
“What nursery?””
Margaret's eyes darted toward the security cameras.
“The room Vincent ordered sealed after the fire.””
Before I could ask anything else, the elevator doors closed.
Adrian stood beside me, holding the photograph of his mother as though it were the last piece of his childhood.
Then Marco's phone rang.
He answered, listened, and turned pale.
“Boss,” he said, “the woman in the photograph has just been taken into Vincent's private clinic.””
Adrian's gaze snapped toward him.
“Which clinic?””
May you like
Marco swallowed.
“The one that officially closed ten years ago.””
