Chapter 4 - The Ninety-Nine Percent
The sterile scent of rubbing alcohol hung heavy in the Queens living room.
Dr. Robert Thorne, a private physician who had signed three separate non-disclosure agreements under the supervision of Sebastian’s personal attorney, carefully placed the third sealed swab into a tamper-evident biohazard container.
Ivy had cried during the swab, her tiny face buried in my neck, but Sebastian had pulled a small, silver mechanical watch from his pocket and showed her how the internal gears turned. Mesmerized by the ticking cogs, she had let the doctor swab the inside of her cheek without another peep.
Seeing Sebastian interact with her—so large, so intimidating, yet kneeling awkwardly on my faded rug, speaking in a low, gentle murmur so he wouldn't startle her—made a knot of conflicting emotions tighten in my chest.
He was supposed to be the villain. He was supposed to be the cold, aristocratic monster who threw me away when I became an inconvenient obstacle to his family’s dynasty. But the man sitting on my floor looked gutted, hollowed out by a truth he was only beginning to comprehend.
“The expedited genetic analysis will take four hours,” Dr. Thorne said, snapping his leather kit shut. “The private lab in midtown is running the sequence under priority status. You’ll have the certified results before two o’clock, Mr. Vale.”
“Thank you, Robert,” Sebastian murmured, not taking his eyes off Owen, who was busy examining the silver cufflink on Sebastian’s discarded suit jacket.
Once the doctor and the legal aides left, Clara discreetly ushered the kids into her apartment downstairs to give them lunch and space to play. The sudden silence that settled over my apartment was deafening.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. Sebastian stood by the window, staring down at the street where his security detail kept watch.
“You fired Marcus,” I said, breaking the silence.
“I had him escorted from the building this morning,” Sebastian replied without turning around. His voice was taut, vibrating with suppressed fury. “He confessed. My mother paid him three hundred thousand dollars four years ago to intercept you. She gave him that check, told him to tell you the marriage was over, and ordered him to ensure you disappeared before the board vote.”
My breath hitched. “And the annulment papers? The phone call where you told me I was a mistake?”
Sebastian spun around, his face pale with horror. “I never made that call, Maya! I was in Zurich for forty-eight hours closing the Swiss acquisition! When I landed at JFK and came home to East 73rd, the apartment was empty. My mother met me at the door with a signed release, claiming you had taken a settlement and left because you couldn't handle the scrutiny of my public life. She showed me a forged medical document saying you had visited a termination clinic.”
A cold, sickening shudder racked my entire body. “What?”
“She told me you aborted our child,” Sebastian choked out, his voice cracking completely. He covered his face with one large hand, his broad shoulders shaking. “She showed me the clinic letterhead. She looked me in the eye and told me you had terminated the pregnancy because you never wanted to be tied to the Vale family. I believed her. God help me, I believed my own mother over the woman I loved.”
The room seemed to spin. All the hatred, all the bitter resentment I had harbored for four years—the sleepless nights of weeping into my pillow while the triplets kicked inside my belly, the agonizing struggle to pay rent, the shame of being discarded—had been engineered by a sociopathic matriarch who viewed human lives as chess pieces.
“You didn't look for me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“I spent six months drunk, trying to kill myself with work and whiskey,” Sebastian confessed, looking at me with raw, bloodshot eyes. “And then, when the fog cleared, I realized something didn't make sense. You wouldn't have done that. You loved life too much. You had too much light in you. I hired three private investigative agencies, but Marcus had buried your trail on my mother’s orders. He scrubbed the digital footprints. I thought you had moved back to Ohio, but when I sent people to your parents’ hometown, you weren't there.”
“I couldn't go home,” I whispered, looking down at my worn sneakers. “My parents died when I was in college. I had nobody. So I stayed in the only city I knew, hidden in plain sight across the river.”
Sebastian took a step toward me, then stopped, keeping a respectful distance as if terrified I would vanish if he moved too fast.
“Maya,” he said, his voice dropping into a desperate plea. “I missed their first smiles. I missed their first steps. I missed hearing them call me daddy. I can never get those four years back. But I will spend every dollar I have, every breath in my lungs, making sure they never want for anything again. And that includes you.”
Before I could process the weight of his words, a sharp buzz sounded from his phone on the table.
Sebastian reached for it. His hand visibly shook as he swiped the screen.
I held my breath. Even though I knew the biological truth with absolute certainty, the formal finality of the moment hung over us like a guillotine.
Sebastian stared at the screen for a long, silent minute. A single tear rolled down his cheek, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto his white collar.
He turned the screen toward me.
*Genetic Marker Match Probability: 99.999%*
*Subject 1 (Owen Vale-Lindell): Offspring of Sebastian Vale.*
*Subject 2 (Noah Vale-Lindell): Offspring of Sebastian Vale.*
*Subject 3 (Ivy Vale-Lindell): Offspring of Sebastian Vale.*
“They’re mine,” Sebastian whispered, a ragged smile breaking through his tears. “They’re really mine.”
Before either of us could say another word, the heavy wooden door of my apartment rattled violently.
The lock clicked—not from a key, but forced open—and Clarissa Hart pushed her way into the hallway, flanked by two private bodyguards of her own. She was wearing an ivory trench coat, oversized sunglasses, and an expression of pure, unbridled malice.
May you like
“Sebastian,” she said, her voice cutting through the emotional atmosphere like a butcher’s knife. “Your mother told me you were here playing house with the help. We need to talk. Right now.”
***
