chapter 180
Susan's POV:
"Lucas." Matthew's voice cut through the tension. "Let her go. Let her find her answers."
Lucas's head whipped around. "Stay out of this, Matthew."
Matthew moved to stand beside my wheelchair, his golden eyes steady on his friend's face. "You're right—Tori is what matters. And having Susan here, in this state, creating this scene outside the operating room—it's not helping anyone."
Lucas's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
The assembled wolves held their collective breath, waiting for his decision.
Finally, Lucas's gaze shifted to Jack Green. He didn't speak, but the slight jerk of his head was unmistakable.
Jack stepped forward immediately. "Mrs. Shepherd, if you'll come with me."
Relief flooded through me so intensely that I felt dizzy.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Lucas turned his back on me, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I'd ceased to exist. He returned to his vigil by the operating room doors, his shoulders rigid with tension.
As Jack began wheeling me toward the elevator, I heard Diana's voice behind us, concern threading through her words.
"What's wrong with Susan? Why is she so desperate to find Hannah Sullivan?"
I wanted to turn back, to explain, to make them understand. But my throat had closed up, and even if I could speak, what would I say?
I just discovered the daughter I mourned for twenty-two years has been alive all this time, and I nearly killed her tonight?
Matthew's response was carefully measured. "She's probably furious about being manipulated by Hannah at the ceremony. The more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets. She wants to confront her."
A lie. A kind lie, meant to protect me—or perhaps to protect them from a truth too devastating to process right now.
Whether or not Tori was truly my daughter, revealing that information now would help no one.
If the blood test was wrong, it would be cruel false hope.
But if it was right... if Tori really was my daughter, and she didn't survive...
The pain would be unbearable.
The elevator descended, and I felt like I was falling with it, spiraling down into a darkness that had no bottom.
---
In a shabby rental apartment, I finally found her.
Hannah lay slumped on a worn sofa, her body still and her eyes unfocused. The apartment reeked of despair and stale air.
"Hannah!" My voice came out stronger than I felt.
She recognized my voice immediately. A slow, bitter smile curved her lips as she forced her battered body to sit up.
Jack pushed my wheelchair through the doorway. I knew I must have looked like hell—soaked through from the rain, my hair plastered wetly against my face and neck, water streaming down my cheeks.
I couldn't tell anymore where the rain ended and my tears began.
Seeing me in such a wretched state brought a spark of life back to Hannah's dead eyes. "Well, well. Mrs. Shepherd. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
My hands gripped the armrests so tightly my knuckles went white, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood. Through the sharp pain, I forced out each word.
"Whose child is Tori? Tell me. Whose child is she really?"
Hannah went still.
Then, slowly, she began to laugh. The sound started soft but grew louder, more unhinged, until she was laughing with wild abandon—a sound of triumph mixed with madness.
"You know?" she gasped between fits of laughter. "You finally know!"
She laughed until she could barely breathe, then pushed herself up from the sofa. She circled my wheelchair like a predator.
"What a pity," Hannah said, leaning close to my ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper—soft, poisonous, deliberately cruel. "You figured it out too late."
She pulled back slightly, her lips curling into a vicious smile. "I heard the hospital broadcast. Critical condition, they said. Massive hemorrhaging. "
She paused, savoring each word like a fine wine. "The medical staff were running around like headless chickens. You know what that means, don't you, Susan?"
My hands trembled on the wheelchair armrests.
"It means she's dying," Hannah continued, her voice taking on a sing-song quality that made my skin crawl. "Oh, wait—I'm wrong. She's probably already dead by now."
The words hit like physical blows. My breath caught, my vision swimming.
"No," I whispered. "No, that's not—"
"Not true?" Hannah straightened, her smile widening. "Why wouldn't it be true? They say you caused all this yourself. How does it feel?"
"Stop." The word came out as a broken sob.
"Why should I stop?" Hannah's voice rose, sharp and vicious. "Don't you want the truth? You came here demanding answers. Well, here's your answer: Tori Sullivan is your daughter, and now she's dying."
The confirmation—hearing it spoken aloud from Hannah's own lips—hit me like a physical blow.
The room tilted sideways. Black spots danced across my vision.
Breathe, I commanded myself. Breathe. Don't pass out.
Through sheer force of will, I kept myself conscious, kept myself upright in the chair even as my body screamed to collapse.
Hannah watched my struggle with undisguised satisfaction. Her eyes glittered with cruel delight as she observed every tremor, every gasp, every visible sign of my anguish.
"You must be so curious," she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "How did your precious baby girl end up as my daughter? "
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed completely.
Hannah circled my wheelchair again, slower this time, savoring the moment.
"Well, since she's dying anyway, I suppose I can be merciful. I'll tell you everything."
She settled back onto the sofa, arranging herself like a queen preparing to hold court.
"Where should I begin? "