Chapter 2 - The Search in the Shadows
Finding someone who didn't want to be found in the rural outskirts of Williamson County was no easy task, even for a billionaire. Megan had completely vanished from the grid after our divorce. Her family had disowned her after Claire’s manufactured evidence leaked to the press, and her friends had vanished into thin air. She had no digital footprint, no bank accounts, and no permanent address.
I spent the next four hours driving down every dirt road, checking every dilapidated trailer park, and asking every late-night gas station attendant if they had seen a blond woman carrying twins.
It was nearly 2:00 AM when I pulled into the gravel lot of a run-down, 24-hour laundromat near the tracks. Through the scratched glass window, I spotted a familiar sight.
A weathered canvas bag rested on top of a plastic folding table. Beside it sat a half-empty sack of aluminum cans.
I pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming softly. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of cheap detergent and industrial bleach. There, sitting in a plastic chair in the corner, was Megan.
The twins were no longer strapped to her chest. They were sleeping peacefully inside a double stroller that looked like it had been salvaged from a scrapyard, wrapped in faded flannel blankets. Megan was staring at the floor, her shoulders hunched in exhaustion. In her hand, she held a small, worn notebook, scribbling lines of numbers—likely calculating how many cans she needed to collect to buy the next canister of formula.
"Megan," I breathed, my voice trembling.
She didn't startle. She didn't scream. She slowly raised her head, her tired, hollow eyes meeting mine. The same heartbreaking pity I had seen earlier returned to her face, but beneath it, I saw a profound, unyielding guard rail slide into place.
"You shouldn't be here, Rowan," she said, her voice soft but entirely devoid of the warmth she used to possess. "Claire will be wondering where her groom is."
"Megan, please..." I stepped forward, falling to my knees right there on the dirty linoleum floor in front of her. I didn't care about my expensive suit. I didn't care about my pride. "I know."
Her hand stopped scribbling. She froze, her gaze dropping to the leather briefcase tightly gripped in my hand.
"I went to Marcus's office," I whispered, tears finally spilling over my eyes. "I saw the payments from Claire. I saw the staged photos. I saw the birth certificates." I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from her worn sandals, not daring to touch her without permission. "I know she set you up. I know everything."
Megan let out a long, shaky breath, but she didn't cry. Her tears had clearly run dry months ago. She looked at the stroller where our blond-haired twins were sleeping, then back at me.
"You know some things, Rowan," she corrected quietly. "But you don't know everything."
"The third baby," I said, the words choking me. "The note said there was a third baby. Megan, what did she do to our child?"
At the mention of the third baby, Megan's emotional armor finally cracked. A sharp, gasping sob escaped her lips, and she buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with a year's worth of agony, terror, and isolation.
May you like
I couldn't stop myself. I moved forward and pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly against my chest. For a second, she stiffened, but then she collapsed against me, her fingers gripping my jacket as she wept for the child that had been ripped away from us.
"She took him, Rowan," Megan cried into my shoulder. "The night I went into labor at the clinic in Nashville... Claire’s people were already there. They told me if I didn't give up one of the triplets, they would ensure the other two never made it out of the hospital alive. They forced me to sign a blank adoption waiver while I was half-unconscious from the medication. I don't even know where he is. I don't even know his name."
