Chapter 37: The Real Emergency
Adrian's POV
The lie had come so smoothly I’d almost believed it myself. Singapore, urgent business deals, windows closing—all perfectly plausible explanations for why I had to abandon my wife in the middle of what should have been a night of promised rewards.
But as my private jet lifted off into the darkness, leaving Calla alone with her disappointment and unfulfilled desire, the truth sat heavy in my chest like a stone.
The call hadn’t been about business at all.
“Mr. Thorne?” Dr. Chen’s voice had been carefully controlled when she’d contacted me, but I’d caught the underlying tension. “We have a situation with the boy. His temperature spiked to 104 degrees an hour ago, and he’s asking for his father.”
His father. The title that belonged to me now, earned through careful manipulation and legal documentation rather than biology. But Nathaniel didn’t know that. To him, I was simply the man who visited regularly, who brought gifts and attention, who represented safety and authority in his carefully controlled world.
The boy had been sick before—minor illnesses that were part of any child’s development—but never anything serious enough to warrant my personal attention. The fact that Dr. Chen had broken protocol to contact me directly meant this was different.
More serious.
Potentially dangerous to the investment I’d made in Alaric’s son.
The flight would take eight hours, giving me time to review the situation and plan my approach. Nathaniel was more than just a stolen child—he was a crucial component in my ongoing research into genetic enhancement and behavioral modification. His unique genetic profile made him an ideal subject for the experiments being conducted at the facility.
Losing him now, after months of careful development, would be… inconvenient.
The Cerberus facility was one of my most profitable ventures, though officially it didn’t exist. Wealthy families paid millions for genetically enhanced heirs, children designed to excel in intelligence, physical ability, and psychological resilience. The technology was cutting-edge, the results impressive, and the secrecy absolute.
Nathaniel represented the next evolution of the program—not just genetic enhancement, but psychological conditioning from birth. By the time he reached adulthood, he would be the perfect combination of superior genetics and complete loyalty to my vision.
But first, he had to survive childhood.
My phone buzzed with an update from Dr. Chen: Fever broken. Patient stable but requesting paternal presence upon waking.
Requesting paternal presence. The clinical language couldn’t disguise what was essentially a child’s cry for comfort. And despite the calculating reasons for my concern, something in my chest tightened at the thought of Nathaniel lying in a hospital bed, burning with fever, calling for the only father figure he’d ever known.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. While Calla lay awake in our bed, aching for the child she believed was dead, I was crossing international boundaries to comfort that same child who now saw me as his entire world.
It was almost poetic in its cruelty.
Chapter 40: Fatherhood
The facility looked nothing like a medical research center from the outside—just another luxury compound nestled in tropical hills, surrounded by private beaches and discrete security. The kind of place where wealthy families sent their children for “specialized education” without asking too many questions about the curriculum.
Dr. Chen met me at the private airstrip, her usually composed demeanor showing subtle cracks of stress.
“How is he?” I asked without preamble.
“Stable. The fever peaked at 104.8 but responded to treatment. We believe it was a reaction to the latest genetic therapy adjustments.”
Genetic therapy adjustments. The euphemism for the carefully calibrated treatments that were slowly optimizing Nathaniel’s natural abilities while ensuring his psychological dependence on the facility’s authority structure.
“Side effects?”
“Minimal. Some temporary fussiness, but his motor development appears unimpaired. The concerning factor is his emotional response to the fever.”
We walked through corridors that looked more like an upscale childcare facility than a medical center—warm lighting, comfortable furniture, artwork chosen to be soothing rather than clinical.
“What kind of emotional response?”
“Increased attachment behaviors. He’s been extremely clingy with Mrs. Sterling and keeps looking toward the door, as if waiting for someone. We believe he associates your visits with comfort and security.”
Associates my visits with comfort. The conditioning was working exactly as designed, creating psychological dependence on my presence even at such a young age.
“Has he been eating?”
“Refused his bottle and solid foods until this morning. Mrs. Sterling has been with him around the clock.”
Mrs. Sterling—the woman I’d hired to serve as Nathaniel’s primary caretaker, chosen for her maternal instincts and absolute discretion. She’d been caring for enhanced children for over a decade, understanding that her role required both nurturing and clinical detachment.
“Is he awake?”
“Just woke from his nap. He should be alert for the next few hours before his evening rest.”
The residential wing was designed to feel like a high-end nursery facility—individual rooms decorated in soft pastels, common areas with age-appropriate toys, outdoor spaces designed for toddler safety. Everything a young child could need for healthy development, except honest contact with the outside world.
Nathaniel’s room was painted in gentle blues and whites, furnished with expensive developmental toys and the kind of safety features that showcased unlimited resources. But it was the small figure in the crib that drew my attention—dark hair still damp with the remnants of fever, features that unmistakably echoed both Alaric and Calla in their delicate combination.
At just over a year old, he was beautiful in the way children were meant to be—innocent, trusting, completely dependent on the adults who shaped his understanding of the world.
“Dada!” The word was clear, excited, his small arms reaching toward me with the automatic recognition that spoke to successful conditioning.
“Hello, little man,” I said, lifting him from the crib with practiced ease. He was lighter than expected, the recent illness having taken some toll, but his grip on my shirt was strong and determined.
“He’s been saying that word more frequently during your absences,” Mrs. Sterling observed from the doorway. “Especially when he’s distressed or looking for comfort.”
Dada. Not his first word—that had been a generic babble—but the one that had developed most clearly, reinforced by my regular visits and the way the staff referred to me in his presence.
“Up!” Nathaniel demanded, though he was already in my arms, his vocabulary limited but expressive.
“You are up,” I said, settling into the comfortable chair beside his crib. “Feeling better?”
He babbled in response, a stream of sounds that weren’t quite words but carried obvious emotional content—relief, happiness, the kind of joy that only came from a child’s absolute trust in their caregiver.
“Ba ba?” he asked, the sound he made for his bottle, small hands patting his mouth.
“He’s asking for his bottle,” Mrs. Sterling translated unnecessarily. “The first time since the fever started.”
As if summoned by the conversation, Mrs. Sterling produced a bottle of formula enhanced with the nutritional supplements designed to support his accelerated development. Nathaniel accepted it eagerly, settling against my chest with the kind of complete trust that spoke to successful bonding.
At just over a year old, his motor skills were already advanced—better coordination than typical children his age, more focused attention, quicker problem-solving when presented with simple puzzles. The genetic enhancements were working exactly as designed.
“Dada stay?” he asked around his bottle, the two-word combination showing accelerated language development.
“For a few days,” I said, though he wouldn’t understand the concept of time beyond immediate presence or absence.
He finished his bottle and immediately began the restless squirming that meant he wanted to explore. I set him down in the safe play area, watching as he moved with the confident mobility of a child whose development was progressing ahead of schedule.
“Block!” he announced, holding up a colorful cube, then immediately dropping it to reach for another toy.
“His attention span has increased significantly since the last enhancement cycle,” Mrs. Sterling noted. “He can focus on activities for nearly ten minutes now—unusual for his age.”
Enhanced attention span. Just one of many modifications designed to optimize his development while ensuring his psychological attachment to the facility’s structure.
Nathaniel played contentedly for nearly an hour, occasionally looking up to ensure I was still there, babbling to himself and anyone who would listen. His vocabulary was limited but growing—“dada,” “up,” “more,” “no”—but his comprehension seemed advanced, following simple instructions and responding appropriately to emotional cues.
When he began to show signs of tiredness, rubbing his eyes and becoming fussier, I lifted him back into my arms. He settled immediately, his small body relaxing against my chest with complete trust.
“Dada,” he murmured sleepily, one small hand fisting in my shirt.
“I’m here,” I said, surprised by how easily the parental response came.
As Nathaniel drifted toward sleep, his breathing evening out in the rhythm of childhood security, I found myself genuinely engaged with his peaceful trust. He was everything I’d hoped Alaric’s genetics would produce when properly guided—intelligent, responsive, developing exactly according to plan.
But more than that, he was mine now in every way that mattered. Shaped by my choices, dependent on my care, knowing me as the only father figure in his expanding world.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. While Calla mourned the child she believed was dead, that same child was thriving under my guidance, developing into everything she would have wanted him to become—if she’d been capable of providing the resources and expertise he required.
Instead, Nathaniel would grow up with every possible advantage, never knowing the woman who’d given him life but would have limited his potential with sentiment and weakness.
Some prices were worth paying for perfection.
Even if that perfection required keeping mother and child forever separated by carefully maintained lies.