Chapter 8 - THE BLOOD RIGHT
We sat in the quiet library for a long time, the weight of a decade's worth of lies dissolving between us. But there was still one question—one terrifying, monumental question that hung in the air, heavy and unasked.
I looked at the photograph lying on the table, then looked at Sarah.
"Chloe," I said, my voice barely audible. "How old is she, Sarah?"
Sarah froze. Her breathing stopped. Slowly, she lifted her head, her teardrop-stained blue eyes meeting mine with absolute, terrifying honesty.
"She turned six last month," Sarah whispered.
Six years old.
Calculated backward... six years ago was nine months after the last night we had spent together in her tiny apartment, right before my father had severed our lives.
My mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle crashing together with staggering, blinding clarity.
The gray eyes. The identical scar above her eyebrow. The fierce, unyielding pride. The way she had instinctively trusted me in the hospital room.
"She's mine," I whispered, the words coming out not as a question, but as a realization that shattered the foundation of my entire world. "Chloe is my daughter."
Sarah didn't deny it. She couldn't. Tears streamed down her face as she nodded, her grip on my hands tightening until her knuckles turned white.
"I found out I was pregnant three weeks after I moved to the coast," Sarah cried out, her voice filled with ten years of isolation. "I tried to call your office, Julian. I went to the corporate headquarters! But your father's secretary had me thrown off the property. They threatened to file a restraining order if I ever came near your family again."
She squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing heavily.
"I raised her alone. I worked twelve-hour shifts at the clinic, coming home to wash her clothes in the sink. I named her Chloe because it meant 'blooming'—because despite everything dark in my life, she was the only beautiful thing that kept growing. And every time I looked at her eyes... I saw you."
I couldn't speak.
A violent surge of emotions—rage at my dead father, agonizing grief for the six years I had lost, and a profound, overwhelming love—flooded my entire body.
I was a father.
The little girl who had stood outside my gate in a thin black coat, clutching a teddy bear and begging for soup for her mother... was my flesh and blood.
I stood up, pulling Sarah up with me, and pulled her into a tight, fierce embrace. She buried her face into my chest, her hands clutching at my suit jacket as years of unspoken suffering finally poured out of her.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, tears burning my own eyes as I buried my face in her gold hair. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry you had to fight alone."
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"You're here now," Sarah sobbed into my shoulder. "You saved us, Julian. You saved both of us."
"I am never letting you go again," I swore softly into the quiet room. "Neither of you."
