Chapter 4 - THE MAN CHRISTIAN LEARNED FROM
Richard Prescott had been dead for two years.
The public remembered him as a smiling former accountant who appeared beside Christian in early career documentaries and told charming stories about driving his son to Nashville auditions in a rusted pickup truck.
Christian privately called him a thief.
Gabriel called him worse.
I knew Richard had stolen money from Christian’s first record contract.
I knew father and son didn’t speak for years.
I had never known Richard Prescott had signed papers involving my daughter.
“Why?” I asked.
Marcus Hale was on speakerphone.
“I don’t know yet.”
Rebecca sat beside my bed.
Gabriel stood near the window.
“Margaret Ellis says Richard arrived with an attorney and paperwork claiming the child was being transferred into private neonatal care.”
“Did she question it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She was told the mother had consented.”
“I was unconscious.”
“I know.”
“Did she see my signature?”
“No.”
Rebecca’s pen moved quickly.
“Did Ellis remember the attorney?”
“She thinks his name was Warren Pike.”
Gabriel turned.
“I know him.”
Everyone looked over.
“Christian’s old business attorney.”
“Old?” Rebecca asked.
“Richard’s first. Then Christian’s.”
“Still practicing?”
“Retired. Florida.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Find him.”
Marcus said, “Already working on it.”
I stared at the ceiling.
Christian’s father had apparently stepped into the conspiracy after Lawson failed to end my pregnancy.
But Richard had always hated Christian.
So why help him?
Unless he hadn’t.
That possibility changed the room.
“What if Richard was trying to save her?”
Gabriel looked at me.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca frowned.
“It is possible.”
I thought of Christian’s childhood stories.
His father stole money.
Controlled him.
Humiliated him.
Then later, Christian became exactly the kind of man he claimed to hate.
Maybe Richard had discovered what his son was doing to me.
Maybe he had taken the child away from Christian.
Or maybe I was inventing goodness because I desperately needed someone in this story to have made one decent choice.
Two days passed.
My injuries began to settle.
The pain remained savage whenever nurses cleaned the damaged skin, but Dr. Evelyn Hart, the reconstructive surgeon who had taken over my case, spoke with a confidence I needed.
“We are not chasing your old face,” she told me during our first consultation.
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can help you heal. I can minimize contracture. Improve symmetry. Protect function.”
She sat beside me.
“But I refuse to promise you that you’ll look exactly the way you did before.”
“Because I won’t.”
“Because medicine isn’t a fairy tale.”
I appreciated that.
Christian’s world had been built from illusions.
I didn’t want another.
Dr. Hart continued.
“You may have visible scars.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
“You may also discover you care less about them than you think.”
“I doubt that.”
“Most people do.”
She smiled.
“Then life surprises them.”
On the third day, the press reported that I had experienced “neurological complications.”
Christian issued another statement.
He canceled three concert dates.
He posted an old photograph of us from Lake Como.
WE WILL FINISH OUR LOVE STORY.
The post received twelve million likes.
I read none of the comments.
Gabriel did.
He stopped after fifteen minutes.
“People think he’s a saint.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“The higher he climbs, the farther he falls.”
Rebecca looked up from her laptop.
“That is a quote prosecutors usually hate hearing from clients.”
“I’m not your usual client.”
“That is becoming painfully obvious.”
Then Marcus called.
“We found Warren Pike.”
My heart accelerated.
“Did he talk?”
“Eventually.”
Rebecca put the call on speaker.
“What did he say?”
“Richard Prescott came to him four years ago with a problem.”
I held my breath.
“Richard believed Christian was trying to cause Genevieve to miscarry.”
Gabriel muttered, “Jesus.”
Marcus continued.
“He found payments from Christian to Lawson.”
“How?”
“Richard still owned a minority interest in one of Christian’s management companies. He saw unusual medical-consulting payments.”
My eyes burned.
“So he knew.”
“He suspected.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Pike says Richard tried.”
I sat up slightly.
“When?”
“During your third pregnancy.”
I searched my memory.
There had been an envelope delivered to our house.
Christian took it before I opened it.
He told me his father was asking for money again.
My stomach turned.
“What happened?”
“Richard hired a private investigator. He learned Lawson was manipulating your treatment.”
“And he let it continue?”
“No.”
Marcus paused.
“He confronted Lawson.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“When?”
“Four days before Genevieve was admitted bleeding.”
The timeline tightened around me.
“What did Lawson say?”
“That the pregnancy was already in danger.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“What did Richard do after the delivery?”
“Pike says Richard believed the child would be safer away from Christian.”
“Where?”
“We’re getting there.”
My pulse jumped.
“Marcus.”
“Pike prepared an emergency guardianship document.”
“For Richard?”
“No.”
“Then for who?”
“A woman named Claire Donovan.”
Nobody spoke.
I didn’t know the name.
Gabriel did.
He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“What?”
“Gabriel?”
He turned toward me.
“Claire Donovan was Christian’s older sister.”
I stared.
“Was?”
“She died.”
My heart fell.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Marcus spoke through the phone.
“That matches Pike’s account.”
I tried to understand.
Christian rarely spoke about family.
I knew he had an older sister who died in a car accident.
He claimed they had been estranged for years.
“Claire had my daughter?”
“For a while,” Marcus said.
My chest tightened.
“How long?”
“Approximately eight months.”
“What happened when she died?”
“That is what we’re trying to establish.”
The room became unbearable.
Every answer opened another door.
I pressed my fingertips to my forehead.
“Did Christian know?”
“Pike doesn’t think so.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Christian despised Claire.”
“Why?”
“She sided with Richard during the contract dispute. Christian claimed they were both trying to control his money.”
I remembered one night early in our relationship.
Christian drank too much after an awards show.
He said his family only loved him when he was useful.
I had held him.
Defended him.
Told him chosen family mattered more.
I had spent five years comforting him for wounds he later used as excuses to destroy me.
Rebecca interrupted.
“Where did Claire live?”
“Louisville,” Marcus said.
“Family?”
“Husband died before her. No biological children.”
I whispered, “Then who took my daughter?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Claire’s best friend handled her estate.”
“Name?”
“Sarah Whitmore.”
“Where is she?”
“Still Louisville.”
I sat up.
“When can we go?”
Rebecca immediately said, “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I am not waiting in this bed while my daughter is three hours away.”
“You had surgery yesterday.”
“My face had surgery. My legs work.”
Dr. Hart, who had just entered, said, “That is not how recovery works.”
I glared at her.
She ignored me.
Marcus continued.
“I spoke briefly with Sarah.”
My entire body stilled.
“What did she say?”
“She confirmed Claire cared for a baby girl.”
A sound escaped me.
Half sob.
Half laugh.
Gabriel turned away.
“What was her name?”
Marcus said, “Claire called her Evie.”
My eyes filled.
Evie.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Where?”
Another pause.
Rebecca stood.
“Marcus.”
He exhaled.
“Sarah adopted her after Claire died.”
I covered my face and immediately regretted touching the bandages.
Pain shot through my cheek.
But I was crying too hard to care.
My daughter was alive.
She had a name.
A home.
A mother.
The realization filled me with joy and something almost as powerful.
Fear.
Because what if she loved Sarah?
Of course she did.
What if taking her away damaged her?
What if she didn’t know I existed?
What if motherhood after nearly four years wasn’t something I had the right to claim simply because blood said so?
Rebecca seemed to read the panic in my face.
“We go slowly.”
“I want to see her.”
“I know.”
“Today.”
“Genevieve.”
“I need to know she’s real.”
Marcus spoke gently.
“Sarah sent a photograph.”
My heart stopped.
Gabriel’s phone chimed.
He opened the message.
Then handed it to me.
A little girl stood in a backyard holding a yellow watering can.
Dark blond hair.
Blue-gray eyes.
A serious expression.
A pink dress covered in strawberries.
She looked nothing like Christian.
Then she smiled.
And I saw myself.
My mother used to tease me because one corner of my mouth lifted higher than the other.
Evie had the same smile.
I touched the screen.
My daughter.
Three years and eight months old.
Alive.
Loved.
Safe.
For several seconds, Christian didn’t exist.
The scars didn’t exist.
The attack didn’t exist.
There was only a little girl holding a watering can.
Then Gabriel’s other phone rang.
His work line.
Christian.
Everyone froze.
Gabriel looked at me.
“Answer.”
He did.
“Christian.”
My fiancé sounded frantic.
“Where the hell are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“No, you’re not. I’m standing outside Genevieve’s room.”
My blood turned cold.
Gabriel recovered quickly.
“I stepped downstairs.”
“Come up.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Then Christian spoke.
“Because something’s wrong.”
Rebecca muted the television.
Gabriel remained calm.
“What?”
“The doctors won’t let me see her.”
“They’ve been limiting visitors.”
“No.”
Christian’s voice hardened.
“I saw the transfer paperwork.”
My stomach twisted.
“It says she was moved yesterday.”
Gabriel didn’t speak.
Christian continued.
“The woman in that bed isn’t Genevieve.”
Every person in my room went still.
May you like
Then he asked quietly,
“Gabriel, where is my fiancée?”
