Ch.16: Midnight Confessions

I didn't have time to process Isabella's confession. The door to the West Wing slammed open, and Thorne burst back into the dining room, his lab coat stained with something dark that I prayed was just ink.

"It's pure," he snarled, holding up the empty bag of 'saline'. "The levels are correct. Why is she rejecting it?"

He saw Isabella sitting up, weak but conscious, clutching my arm. He stopped, his chest heaving.

"You're awake," he breathed.

"I'm fine, Julian," Isabella lied, her voice raspy but steady. She squeezed my wrist—a warning. "It was just... a rush. Too fast."

Thorne looked between us, suspicion warring with relief.

"I need supplies," I said quickly, seizing the moment. "Pediatric saline. Gauze. And more diapers. We're out."

Thorne waved a dismissive hand. "Take the car. Leo will drive you."

***

The rain was a solid sheet of gray, hammering against the roof of the Rolls Royce as we wound down the mountain road.

Leo drove in silence. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The tension in the car was thick enough to choke on.

"You switched the bags," he said. It wasn't a question.

I looked at him in the rearview mirror. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Elena. I saw you in the kitchen with the food coloring. Red 40. You think I don't know what that looks like?"

The car swerved slightly as he took a turn too fast.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he growled. "If Thorne finds out, he won't just kill you. He'll make it slow."

"I had to stop him," I said, my voice rising. "He's bleeding her dry, Leo. She's losing weight. She's lethargic. If I didn't stop it, she wouldn't last another week."

"And now what? You think salt water is going to save Isabella? When she crashes again—and she will—Thorne is going to tear that house apart looking for the cause."

The engine sputtered.

The smooth hum of the Rolls Royce faltered. A grinding noise erupted from under the hood.

"Damn it," Leo hissed.

The car lurched, losing speed rapidly. Leo fought the wheel, guiding the massive vehicle onto the muddy shoulder of the road just as the engine died completely.

Silence, except for the rain drumming on the metal.

"Sabotage?" I whispered.

"No," Leo said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Neglect. Thorne spends millions on his lab and pennies on maintenance."

He popped the hood and got out. I watched him through the rain-streaked windshield. He was soaked in seconds, his white t-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. He looked angry. He looked defeated.

I opened the door and stepped out into the storm.

"Can you fix it?" I yelled over the wind.

He didn't answer. He was staring down at the engine block, steam rising around him. He slammed the hood shut with a violence that made me jump.

"It's dead," he said. "Alternator is shot."

He leaned back against the grill, wiping rain from his face. He looked exhausted. Not just tired—soul-weary.

"Why do you stay, Leo?" I asked, stepping closer. "You hate him. You know what he does. Why are you still here?"

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound.

"Because I have a debt to pay."

He reached into his pocket, but instead of the photo of his sister, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a receipt. A bank transfer receipt.

"Five years ago," he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "I was broke. Desperate. My sister was sick, and I couldn't pay the bills. I saw an ad. 'High compensation for anonymous donors.' St. Jude's Clinic."

My breath hitched. St. Jude's. That was Thorne's private fertility clinic. The one that had been shut down for 'regulatory violations' right before he moved to the estate.

"I sold my sperm," Leo said, looking at the ground. "Five hundred dollars. Easy money. I thought I was helping some nice couple start a family."

He looked up at me, water dripping from his lashes.

"Then I found the files in the garage. Thorne kept records of everything. Every donor. Every recipient."

He took a step toward me.

"He didn't use it for couples, Elena. He used it for his experiments. He was trying to breed a specific genetic profile. Someone with type AB-Null blood."

The world stopped. The rain, the wind, the cold—it all faded into background noise.

"He filtered the donors," Leo whispered. "He chose me because I carry the marker. And he chose you... because you carry the other half."

I stared at him. The rugged jawline. The dark, messy hair. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners—exactly like Daisy's when she smiled.

"You're not just the chauffeur," I breathed.

"No," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm the father."

He turned away, slamming his fist into the hood of the car.

"I drive him around. I polish his shoes. I watch him play God. And every time I look at that baby... every time I see her... I see my own face."

He didn't know. He thought he was just a donor. He thought it was a coincidence.

He didn't realize that the baby he was talking about—the baby dying in the glass fortress up the hill—was his daughter.

He turned back to me, his eyes pleading for absolution.

"I helped him make her, Elena. I gave him the ingredients. I'm just as guilty as he is."

I reached out and took his hand. It was rough, calloused, and shaking.

"No," I said fiercely. "You're not guilty. You're a victim."

I squeezed his hand, pulling him closer.

"And you're a father."

He froze.

"What?"

"Daisy," I said, the truth finally breaking free. "Her name is Daisy. And she has your eyes."

He stared at me, the rain mingling with the tears on his face.

He doesn't know. He's looking at Daisy's father in the rearview mirror every day.