Alone.
Terrified.
And pregnant.
Eventually, I stopped searching.
I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.
I named him Brandon.
And for twenty years, I carried one secret in my heart:
I never stopped believing Alexander was alive.
Until that night in the mansion.
Until now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Alexander’s voice pulled me back into the present.
I stared at him.
“I thought you were dead.”
His expression hardened.
“I thought you were dead too.”
I froze.
“What?”
He reached for the necklace.
“Your family told me you left Chicago with another man.”
My mouth fell open.
“My family?”
He nodded.
“They told me you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“They showed me a letter.”
My chest tightened.
“What letter?”
“A letter supposedly written by you.”
I stepped closer.
“What did it say?”
His eyes met mine.
“That you had chosen someone else.”
I shook my head violently.
“I never wrote that.”
“I know.”
The words came out quietly.
“I know now.”
Silence filled the bathroom.
Twenty years of grief suddenly had a shape.
A face.
A name.
A family.
Someone had lied to both of us.
Someone had deliberately kept us apart.
But why?
Alexander suddenly reached for my wrist.
I flinched.
He immediately let go.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes fell to the hospital-style medical bracelet I was still wearing from my recent appointment.
Then his gaze moved to my face.
“You have children.”
I nodded.
“Two.”
“Brandon and Lily?”
My blood ran cold.
I had never told him their names.
“How do you know my son’s name?”
Alexander went completely still.
Then he looked away.
“I’ve seen him.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
“Alexander, how do you know my son?”
He slowly looked back at me.
“Because someone has been sending me photographs of your family for the last six months.”
My stomach dropped.
“What photographs?”
He reached toward a drawer beside his wheelchair.
I watched him pull out a thin black folder.
He placed it on the table.
Inside were photographs.
My apartment.
My children walking to school.
Brandon playing in the park.
Lily holding her broken doll.
Me carrying groceries.
Photos taken from a distance.
Without our knowledge.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Who sent these?”
“I don’t know.”
I flipped through them.
Then I saw one that made my blood run cold.
It showed Brandon standing outside our apartment building.
And beside him was a black SUV.
The same SUV I had noticed several times over the past few months.
I looked at Alexander.
“Why would someone photograph my children?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he opened the last page.
There was a photograph of me.
Taken only three days earlier.
Outside the café where I had applied for the caregiver job.
On the back was handwritten:
SHE’S FINALLY HERE.
My fingers went numb.
“What does this mean?”
Alexander stared at the photograph.
“I think someone wanted you to come here.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
He leaned back.
“Because this job wasn’t an accident.”
The next morning, I called the agency.
They told me something that made my stomach twist.
There was no record of my application.
No interview.
No employee file.
Nothing.
I hadn’t been hired.
I had been personally requested.
By Alexander Bennett.
Except Alexander insisted he had never seen my name before that day.
