A fight broke out at school after another boy kept insisting my son was his “brother.” Yet the moment my eyes landed on the child’s face, my blood completely froze.

The rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets as Mark’s car tore down the interstate toward the private airfield. The speedometer pushed past eighty, the wipers slapping violently against the windshield.

I sat in the passenger seat, my phone clutched in my hand. Julian was already contacting his sources in federal law enforcement, but red tape was slow, and Cynthia Vance had millions of dollars to grease the wheels of departure. If the jet left the runway, Stefan would disappear into the labyrinth of Swiss banking secrecy and private estates.

"Step on the gas, Mark," I whispered, the panic clawing at my throat. "If we lose him, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you rot in the deepest hole this country has."

"I'm trying, Elena, I'm trying!" Mark sobbed, his hands white on the steering wheel.

We careened off the highway and down the private access road toward the executive hangars. Through the gloom, the lights of a sleek, white Gulfstream jet blazed against the wet asphalt. Ground crew were loading luggage into the cargo hold, and the jet engines were already whining, spooling up with a high-pitched scream.

A black town car was parked near the boarding stairs.

Mark slammed on the brakes, sending the car sliding sideways across the slick tarmac, coming to a halt directly behind Cynthia’s vehicle.

Security guards in dark raincoats immediately moved toward us, their hands disappearing under their jackets. But I didn't care about guns. I didn't care about security.

I kicked the car door open and bolted into the freezing rain.

"Stefan!" I screamed over the roar of the jet engines. "Stefan!"

The passenger door of the town car opened, and Cynthia stepped out, an umbrella held over her by a chauffeur. Behind her, a small figure in a dark wool coat emerged, his eyes wide with fear as he took in the scene.

"Elena, get back in your car!" Cynthia shouted, her voice amplified by the hangar’s echoing concrete. "You are trespassing on private property! I will have you shot!"

"He is my son!" I yelled, running toward them. A security guard lunged to grab my shoulder, but Mark—throwing his entire weight forward—slammed into the guard, tackling him into the wet tarmac.

"Let her talk to him, Cynthia!" Mark screamed from the ground, fighting off the guard. "It's over! The feds know! Finch talked to the press! It's over!"

Cynthia froze, the color draining entirely from her face at the mention of Dr. Finch.

I didn't stop. I ran past the second guard, who hesitated, visibly conflicted by the sight of a weeping, drenched mother. I dropped to my knees on the freezing concrete right in front of Stefan.

He looked down at me, his gray eyes—so identical to Cole's—shining with confusion and terror.

"Stefan," I wept, reaching out, my hands hesitating an inch from his face, terrified of scaring him. "Stefan, baby... look at me."

"Are you... are you Cole's mom?" the little boy whispered, his voice trembling in the freezing wind. "Why do you look like you're crying for me?"

"Because I have been crying for you for eight years," I choked out, a sob tearing from my throat. "They told me you died, baby. But you didn't. You're my son. You have a brother who looks just like you. And I have never, ever stopped loving you."

Stefan stared at me, his chest heaving. Slowly, despite the cold rain, he raised his small, gloved hand and touched my wet cheek.