Mallory
I walk away from the café, the crumpled napkin tucked safely in the pocket of Chloe’s borrowed jeans. It feels like the only thing I own in the world. The man’s words echo in my head. *Ambitious. Beautiful.* Not silly. Not a hobby.
A long black car with tinted windows glides to a stop beside me. It’s the kind of car the Greers use. My heart seizes. They’ve sent someone. To what? Threaten me? Silence me for good?
The back door opens. A man in a crisp grey suit steps out. He’s older, with kind eyes and a tired face, not the brutish security I was expecting.
“Miss Greer?” he asks. His voice is calm, professional.
I stop, clutching the strap of Chloe’s bag. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Arthur Davies. I’m a private investigator.” He offers a small, reassuring smile. “I mean you no harm. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. My clients have been looking for you for a very long time.”
I take a step back. “I don’t know any clients. If the Greers sent you…”
“I do not work for the Greers,” he says, his tone firm. “My clients’ interests are entirely separate from theirs. They asked me to find you. To ask if you would be willing to meet with them.”
“Meet with who? Why?” My mind races through possibilities, none of them good.
“It’s a sensitive matter, Miss Greer. One they must explain themselves.” He gestures to the open car door. The interior is plush leather and polished wood. “They’re waiting nearby. Will you come with me?”
Every instinct screams no. Don’t get in a car with a stranger. But the Greers already did their worst. What else is there to lose?
Besides, there's something in his eyes. A genuine gravity. This is not a trick.
“Fine,” I say, my voice tight. “But if this is some kind of trap…”
“It’s the furthest thing from it,” he says softly.
I slide into the car. The door closes with a soft, expensive thud, sealing out the noise of the city. We pull away from the curb in complete silence.
“Can you at least tell me what this is about?” I ask, looking at Mr. Davies in the seat opposite me.
“It’s about your family,” he says, his gaze steady.
“I don’t have a family anymore.” The words come out colder than I intend.
“That,” he says, a hint of a smile touching his lips, “is about to change.”
The car doesn't go to a corporate office or a law firm. It pulls into the private entrance of the Four Seasons, a hotel that makes the Grand Imperial look modest. Mr. Davies leads me not to the lobby, but to a private elevator.
“They’re in the presidential suite,” he says as we ascend. “They’re very anxious to meet you.”
The elevator doors open directly into a magnificent room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the entire city. Standing by the window are a man and a woman. They turn as we enter, and the air crackles with tension.
The woman is elegant, with dark hair swept up, and eyes the exact shade of my own. She wears a simple cream-colored dress, but she holds herself with an innate grace that makes it look like couture. The man is tall, with silver at his temples and a face that is both strong and kind. They both look at me as if they’ve just seen a miracle.
The woman takes a step forward, her hand flying to her mouth. A choked sob escapes her.
“Isabelle,” the man says gently, placing a hand on her arm.
“It’s her, Richard,” she whispers, her eyes locked on mine, shining with tears. “It’s really her.”
I look from them to Mr. Davies, completely lost. “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a terrible mistake. I don’t know you.”
“There is no mistake, my dear,” the man, Richard, says. His voice is thick with emotion. “We’ve been searching for you for twenty-four years.”
The number hangs in the air. Twenty-four years. My whole life.
“Searching for me? Why?” I shake my head, a dizzying sense of unreality washing over me. “I was with the Greers.”
The woman, Isabelle, takes another step closer. She moves slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “The Greers… they weren’t your parents, Mallory. We are.”
The world tilts on its axis. The luxurious suite, the city skyline, the faces in front of me all blur into an incomprehensible swirl.
“What?” I whisper. “No. That’s not possible. I was adopted.”
“You were stolen,” Isabelle says, her voice breaking on the word. “You were stolen from us the day you were born.”
Richard comes to her side, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. He never takes his eyes off me. “There was a small fire in the hospital nursery. It was chaos. In the confusion, a nurse took you.”
“She told us you didn’t make it,” Isabelle continues, the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. “They gave us a death certificate. We held a funeral for an empty casket.”
I can’t breathe. My mind struggles to connect the pieces. The Greers. Their coldness. Their calculated dismissal of me. *The adoption is now a liability.* It wasn’t a gesture of kindness. It was a transaction.
“But… how?” I manage to ask.
“The nurse confessed, just last month, on her deathbed,” Richard explains, his expression hardening. “She sold you. To a desperate couple who couldn’t have children of their own. A couple willing to pay any price and ask no questions. Marcus and Catherine Greer.”
My knees feel weak. I reach out and steady myself on the back of a silk armchair.
“We never gave up hope,” Isabelle says, her voice trembling with the weight of two decades of pain. “I always felt it, in my heart, that you were still out there. We hired investigators, followed every lead, spent a fortune. For twenty-four years, we have done nothing but search for you.”
Mr. Davies speaks from the doorway. “The nurse’s confession gave us the name. The Greers. I started watching them, and then… two nights ago… they threw you out. It was all over the society pages. We knew we had to find you immediately.”
They found me because I was disowned. They found me because I had been publicly humiliated and cast aside.
“Our daughter,” Isabelle whispers, taking the final step between us. She slowly lifts a hand, her fingers trembling, and gently brushes a strand of hair from my face. Her touch is feather-light, full of a lifetime of longing. “We named you Mallory. It means ‘light’. You were the light of our lives for the twelve hours we had you.”
I stare into her eyes, and for the first time in my life, I see my own reflection in someone else’s face. The same shape. The same color. The same faint arch of the brow.
She is my mother.
This man, his eyes full of a father’s love, is my father.
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” I say, but it’s a lie. I do understand. A lifetime of feeling like I didn’t quite fit, of craving an affection that was always just out of reach, suddenly clicks into place with devastating clarity.
“You don’t have to understand everything right now,” Richard says, his voice gentle. “All you need to know is that you are home. You are loved. Unconditionally.”
That word. *Unconditionally*. It’s a concept so foreign it feels like it belongs to another language.
Isabelle’s hand cups my cheek. “We’ve missed so much,” she says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Birthdays. First steps. Every single day. But we will not miss another one. We will give you everything, Mallory. Everything you were ever denied.”
I look from her face to Richard’s. I see two people who have been living with a wound for my entire life. And I am the cure.
I came into this room with nothing but a crumpled napkin and a broken heart. Now, I am being offered a world. A family. A truth so staggering it threatens to break me all over again, but this time, not from sorrow. From a tidal wave of love so immense it feels like drowning.
“My name,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue, “is Mallory Beaumont.”
