Chapter 79 See you later.

This was my fault—or at least, my kidnapping was the cause of this woman's suffering. My birth mother had lost her mind because I was taken from her.

"It wasn't your fault," I told myself firmly. "You were a baby. Johnson did this."

I forced myself to continue through the documents, following the trail as the years passed and the active investigation cooled. The desperate searches became routine check-ins, the daily police communications became monthly, then yearly reports of no new developments.

After my birth father's death in a car accident five years after my kidnapping, there was a noticeable shift in the tone of the documents. Gregory Morris took over the search personally, hiring new investigators, offering larger rewards.

Then, ten years ago, Bernard entered the picture. The methodical approach was immediately apparent in his reports—systematic database searches.

I paused on a memo from Bernard to Gregory dated about a year ago:

"I saw a face very similar to Elizabeth on Apex marketing’s website. Subject: Diana Peters, 28, marketing exec.utive. Preliminary application, further inspection."

So that's when it had started—Bernard's observation of me.

I kept reading, following Bernard's meticulous documentation of his surveillance, his planning for our "accidental" meeting, his assessment of my character and am I fit to know the truth."

One paragraph in a report to Gregory made me pause:

"Subject acts of kindness without audience. Professional integrity at personal cost. Strong moral compass. Psychological profile suggests ability to adapt to significant life changes when properly prepared. Recommend gradual approach rather than immediate disclosure."

“Should I thank him for his understanding?” I couldn’t help laughing bitterly.

I shook my head, moving on to more recent documents—including reports about Thomas Johnson's company and its efforts against Morris Industries' green energy project. Bernard hadn't been exaggerating the threat; Johnson had apparently dedicated significant resources to industrial espionage against Morris, attempting to steal technology, sabotage partnerships, and undermine investor confidence.

A report dated just three months ago noted: "Johnson increasingly desperate as Morris green energy solution approaches market readiness. Sources indicate personalization of corporate vendetta. High probability he will escalate tactics if project continues advancement."

As I reached the most recent documents, something slipped from between the pages—a small, worn photograph. I picked it up, turning it over.

It showed a baby—me, presumably—being held by a beautiful dark-haired woman who was looking down with absolute adoration. Beside her stood a handsome man with his arm protectively around her shoulders, beaming with pride.

My birth parents. Elizabeth and Kim Morris.

I traced their faces with my finger, searching for resemblance. I had my mother's eyes, my father's nose. They looked so happy, so in love with each other and with the tiny bundle in their arms.

And everything had been destroyed because of a Thomas.

Tears slid down my cheeks as I stared at the photograph—this evidence of a life I should have had. If not for Thomas Johnson's revenge, I would have grown up as Elizabeth Diana Morris, beloved daughter of Elizabeth and Kim, granddaughter of Gregory.

But then I wouldn't be Diana Peters. I wouldn't have the mother who raised me, the life I'd built, the career I'd worked for.

I wouldn't be me.

The realization hit me with unexpected force. As tragic as my kidnapping had been for my birth family, it had created the person I now was. Diana Peters wasn't just a fiction—she was a real person with real experiences, real achievements, real relationships.

"Both are true," I whispered, echoing Bernard's text. "Diana Peters, who is also Elizabeth Diana Morris."

The sound of my phone ringing pulled me from these thoughts. It was a number I didn't recognize.

"Hello?" I answered cautiously.

"Diana, it's James Wilson." His voice was tense. "We have a situation. How quickly can you be ready to move?"

My heart began racing. "What kind of situation?"

"Johnson's people have increased surveillance on your building. We've intercepted communications suggesting they may have identified your connection to Morris Industries." He paused. "Mr. Jones is on his way back from Chicago now. He's requested you be moved to a more secure location immediately."

"More secure than this place?" I asked incredulously. "Where exactly?"

"The Morris family estate in Westchester," James replied. "It has comprehensive security systems and a full security team on site."

The family estate. Where I had been kidnapped from as a baby.

"Is Gregory Morris there?" I asked, suddenly nervous.

"Yes," James confirmed. "He's expecting you."

My grandfather was waiting for me at the house I'd been taken from twenty-eight years ago. The circle was completing, whether I was ready or not.

"How long do I have?" I asked, already moving toward the bedroom to gather my things.

"Car is on its way," James replied. "Fifteen minutes, at most."

After hanging up, I moved quickly, throwing my few personal items into my overnight bag. I hesitated over the notebook in the nightstand drawer, then grabbed it on impulse, stuffing it into the bag with the rest of my things.

As I zipped the bag closed, my phone buzzed with a text from Bernard:

"I'm thirty minutes from landing. Wilson briefed me on situation. Go with security team to estate. I'll meet you there. Don’t worry Diana."

Despite everything, I felt a wave of relief knowing Bernard was on his way. Whatever complications existed between us, I still hope that he can accompany me at the moment.

I quickly texted back: “See you later."

Then I took one last look around the guest suite, at the luxury I'd briefly indulged in, at the files spread across the dining table documenting my strange, twisted history.

No matter what happened next, I knew one thing for certain.

I was about to truly confront my identity as Elizabeth Diana Morris.

A sharp knock on the door signaled it was time. With my bag in hand and my heart in my throat, opened the door.