WAKING UP DRUNK IN MY BOSS’S PRESIDENTIAL SUITE WAS ALREADY THE WORST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of rain, screeching tires, and suffocating fear. Tristan drove his own armored SUV, ignoring every red light in Manhattan.

I sat in the passenger seat, gripping the silver dove bracelet until it dug into my palm.

“They won’t hurt her,” Tristan said, his voice cutting through the dark cabin. He didn’t look away from the road. “Arthur is there. My head of security. He’s the best.”

“The same security that let someone drag me up to your hotel room?” I shot back, the panic making me cruel.

Tristan’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. He knew I was right. His inner circle was bleeding poison, and we were drowning in it.

We slammed to a halt outside the emergency entrance. Tristan grabbed his badge and my hand, dragging me through the sliding doors. We bypassed the front desk entirely, sprinting toward the private elevators.

When the doors opened on the intensive care floor, it was chaos.

Nurses were shouting. A crash cart sat abandoned in the hallway. Two of Tristan’s men in dark suits were bleeding on the linoleum, paramedics rushing to bandage their heads.

“Mom!” I screamed, tearing away from Tristan.

I bolted down the hall to room 412. I threw the door open.

The bed was empty.

The monitors were flatlining in a slow, continuous whine because the leads had been ripped away. The sheets were on the floor.

My knees gave out. I collapsed against the doorframe, a sob tearing from my throat. I was too late. I had taken the job to save her, and it had killed her.

Strong arms caught me before I hit the floor. Tristan hoisted me up, pulling me tight against his chest.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

“She’s gone! They took her—”

“Lily, look at me!”

I blinked through my tears. He pointed toward the far corner of the room. Standing there, entirely unhurt, was a middle-aged nurse holding a clipboard. Next to her was a man with graying temples—Arthur, Tristan’s security chief.

“She’s safe, Miss Harper,” Arthur said gently, stepping forward. “When the alarms tripped at the outer doors, I had the nurse move your mother to a secure recovery room on the surgical wing. The men who breached this room found an empty bed.”

Relief washed over me so intensely I thought I might pass out. I buried my face in Tristan’s coat, shaking uncontrollably. His hand cupped the back of my head, holding me steady.

“Did you get a look at them, Arthur?” Tristan asked over my head.

“Two men. Professionals. They went out the fire escape when they realized the room was empty. But they left something behind on the pillow.”

Arthur held up a small, plastic evidence bag.

Inside was a torn, faded piece of heavy cardstock. A ticket stub.

I pulled away from Tristan and stared at it. It was a ferry ticket to Staten Island. The date printed on it was exactly twenty-five years ago.

“My mother kept the other half of that ticket,” I whispered. “It was in her jewelry box at home. She said it was from the day my father left us.”

Tristan took the bag from Arthur. “Your father died before you were born, Lily.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“She lied.” Tristan flipped the bag over. On the back of the ticket, written in fresh, black marker, were three words.

Check the rosary.

“What rosary?” Tristan asked.

I felt cold. “The one she was holding when they brought her in. The hospital let her keep it.”

I turned and ran toward the surgical wing, Tristan right behind me. When we reached the secure room, my mother was lying there, frail but breathing steadily. Twined around her pale fingers were heavy wooden prayer beads.

I reached out, my hands trembling, and gently pulled the rosary free.

The cross was unusually thick. I turned it over and pressed my thumbnail into a tiny seam in the wood. It slid open, revealing a hidden compartment.

Inside was a rolled-up piece of microfilm.

Tristan held it up to the harsh hospital light. “It’s a birth certificate.”

“Whose?” I asked.

Tristan looked at me, and the earth shifted beneath my feet.

“Mine. And the father listed isn’t the man who raised me. It’s Marcus.”