Chapter 7 - A Billionaire at the Nursery Door
Roman reached the nursery before the elevator doors finished opening.
I was behind him.
Grant was behind me.
Sophie was screaming.
A woman in medical scrubs stood beside her bassinet.
Roman drew a gun.
"Step away."
The woman raised both hands.
"I'm a nurse."
"No, you're not."
I recognized her.
The reversed badge.
The person from the security footage.
She slowly removed her mask.
Grant stopped breathing.
"Mom?"
The woman was Margaret Kingsley.
Grant's mother.
She looked older than society photographs.
More frightened.
"Grant."
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Saving her."
She pointed toward Sophie.
"From Charles."
I pushed past Roman.
"Don't touch my daughter."
"I wasn't going to."
"Then why are you here?"
Margaret reached into her pocket.
Roman raised the weapon.
"Slowly."
She removed a flash drive.
"This is what Elena's father died protecting."
Nobody moved.
"How did you get it?" Roman asked.
"Because he gave it to me."
My head spun.
"You knew my father?"
Margaret looked at me.
"He saved my sons."
"From what?"
"From Charles."
Grant's face hardened.
"Explain."
Margaret sat.
Thirty-two years of secrets began to unravel.
Charles had discovered early in his marriage that he was infertile.
Arthur Kingsley demanded an heir.
Margaret underwent fertility treatment privately.
Both Grant and Adrian were conceived using donor sperm.
Charles knew.
Arthur did not.
Years later, Arthur became suspicious.
My father was ordered to arrange DNA testing.
When the truth emerged, Arthur threatened to remove Charles from the succession trust.
Then Arthur died.
Officially, a heart attack.
My father kept copies of the tests.
"Why?"
"Insurance."
"Against Charles?"
"Against everyone."
Grant stared at his mother.
"So I'm not a Kingsley."
"You are my son."
"That's not what I asked."
Margaret's eyes filled.
"No. Charles is not your biological father."
Grant sat heavily.
For the first time, I saw the identity beneath his arrogance collapse.
It didn't erase what he'd done.
But it explained the fear that had controlled him.
"Does Charles know about Sophie?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Why does he care if Grant isn't biologically his?"
Margaret looked at me.
"Because Grant's donor wasn't anonymous."
Roman's expression changed.
"Who?"
Margaret looked toward the flash drive.
"Arthur Kingsley."
Silence.
Grant stood.
"That's impossible."
"It was legal at the time under the clinic's procedures. Arthur had banked genetic material years earlier. I was desperate. Your father—Charles—was desperate."
Grant looked sick.
"So Arthur was..."
"Your biological father."
That meant Grant was biologically in the senior Kingsley line after all.
And Sophie, if she was his daughter, was the first descendant capable of triggering the trust.
Now I understood.
Charles didn't need to love Sophie.
He needed to control her.
"Grant's fertility test?" I asked.
Margaret hesitated.
"He isn't infertile."
Grant looked up sharply.
"What?"
"The report was altered."
"Why?"
"Charles couldn't risk you producing a child he couldn't control."
Grant stared at me.
Everything he'd done to me had been based on a lie his father created.
But Grant had still chosen to pass that lie to me.
"You knew my diagnosis was false," I said.
His voice was quiet.
"I knew something was wrong. I didn't know this."
"You blamed me."
"I was afraid."
"So was I."
That silenced him.
Roman took the flash drive.
"We need copies."
Margaret shook her head.
"It's encrypted."
"Password?"
"I don't know."
"My father did," I said.
Roman looked at me.
Locker 417.
We had a key.
Maybe the password was there.
At dawn, Mara obtained access to the old bank where my father had kept a box.
Roman insisted on coming.
Grant insisted too.
I nearly refused.
Then I remembered my father's photograph.
My mother had been there.
I called her.
She answered on the second ring.
"Mom, what is locker 417?"
Silence.
"Where did you hear that?"
"Dad left a key."
"Elena, don't open it."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Because your father didn't hide evidence in that locker."
"What did he hide?"
My mother's voice broke.
"The name of the man who killed him."
I looked at Roman.
He heard.
"Who?"
She whispered, "Elena, please."
"Who killed Dad?"
Before she answered, the bank manager approached us.
"Ms. Hart?"
"Yes."
His face was pale.
"There's a problem."
"What?"
"Locker 417 was opened this morning."
Roman went still.
"By whom?"
May you like
The manager swallowed.
"According to the signature card, by your father."
