Chapter 19 THE ARCHIVE (Demilia’s POV)
I walked straight to the back, to the part Ethan always avoided. The part he told me never to touch. The part he feared I would touch.
His footsteps trailed behind me, steady but tense, like he was walking toward a grave he’d hoped no one would ever find.
“Demilia,” Ethan warned, his voice deeper than usual. “Don’t do this.”
But it was too late for warnings. Too late for boundaries. Too late for pretending I was blind.
“You had your chance to tell me,” I said through clenched teeth, my voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “Now I’ll find the truth myself.”
His breath caught slightly — not in surprise, but resignation. He knew he couldn’t stop me. Maybe he knew this moment was inevitable.
I scanned the drawers until one label caught my eye:
B-17: ARCHIVE — PERSONAL FILES — BLACKWELL ESTATE
The label alone was enough to make my blood freeze. They were personal files. Blackwell estate. Not business related, not even finances. Just personal.
The drawer handle felt cold under my fingertips, biting against my skin. My hand trembled as I opened it. The metallic screech pierced the silence of the room, making my heart race faster.
Inside were old documents, some stained with time. Folders in various colors...black, red, grey...sealed envelopes with wax stamps, aged papers yellowed at the edges. I skimmed through, searching for anything that explained the dread filling my chest.
And then something else.
A file thicker than all the others. Bound in black leather, and very heavy.
Titled in bold black ink: PROJECT DANTE
The moment my eyes landed on it, my blood ran cold.
I froze, my throat tightened. My fingers twitched above the file but didn’t touch it immediately.
I whispered the words aloud ... barely, because my voice was fading.
“Project… Dante.”
That was my last name, my identity. My entire existence. Linked to a file buried in Ethan’s private archive.
I heard Ethan curse under his breath, a sound so low and raw it didn’t sound like him at all.
“Demilia,” he said urgently. “Put that down.”
“What is this?” I demanded, though my voice cracked on the last word.
“A mistake,” he replied sharply. “Close it.”
“No.”
The refusal slipped out before I even had time to think. It came from someplace deeper... from the part of me that had been drowning in confusion, betrayal, and fear for days.
I opened the file.
The folder creaked as if it hadn’t been touched in years, and dust scattered all over the room.
Inside were photographs...children, babies, infants with numbers instead of names. Medical reports with scientific terms I barely understood. Newspaper clippings of missing children from decades ago. Adoption records... with signatures, dates, and stamps. Genetic charts mapping out bloodlines in cold black ink. Blood type tables. Diagrams. Notes scribbled in a handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Then I turned to a page... and the world stopped breathing.
My name.
Demilia Dante
Age: 2 months
Status: Transferred
Marking: Crescent Birthmark... Lower Back
Classification: Candidate
My entire body froze in place. I felt my nails dig into the paper. My lungs refused to expand. The words swam before me, blurring as tears filled my eyes.
“What… what is this?” I whispered, barely able to hear myself.
Ethan stepped closer, but the sound of his footsteps made me flinch. The room suddenly felt too small, too cold, too dangerous.
“Demilia, listen to me..”
“Don’t!” I jerked away from him so fast the file nearly fell from my hands. “Explain it, right now.”
He took a slow, steady breath. His chest rose and fell like a man preparing for war.
“It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it!” I cried, my voice breaking under the weight of betrayal. “Why is my name in a file with missing babies? Why was I labeled like some experiment? Explain the part where your father’s records say ‘Transferred’ like I was a package!”
He closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his jaw tightening.
“This isn’t what you think.”
“Then what is it?” I demanded, my hands shaking harder now, gripping the file as if it were the only thing keeping me standing.
He hesitated... truly hesitated...for the first time since I met him. Ethan Blackwell, the man who always had an answer, a strategy, an explanation… looked lost.
For the first time, his confidence cracked, thin as glass under pressure.
“Project Dante,” he said quietly, slowly, like he hated every word coming from his mouth, “was my father’s obsession. A project he started before I was even born.”
“About what?” I whispered.
His eyes flicked away. “Bloodlines.”
My stomach twisted.
“Heirs,” he continued. “Children with… certain traits.”
A cold heaviness pressed against my ribs. “What traits?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me...as if weighing whether telling me would destroy me, or himself.
“Rare ones,” he finally said. “Dangerous ones.”
My palms grew sweaty. My heart thundered in my ears. “And I’m in this how?”
He swallowed hard, a movement so controlled it almost looked rehearsed.
“Because you were one of the children listed in the project files.”
My legs gave out. I sank down slowly, the cold floor touching my knees. The world around me felt distant, blurred, like I was underwater.
My breath came in short, uneven gasps.
“So your father took me?” I whispered. “Or bought me? Or...or what?”
He shook his head. “He didn’t take you. Not exactly.”
“Then what, Ethan?” My voice cracked, raw. “What happened to me?”
He looked at me with eyes I couldn’t read ..pity, guilt, fear, all tangled.
“You were… given.”
“By who?” My voice trembled.
He hesitated. “Your mother.”
I stared at him, feeling the air sucked out of my lungs. “That’s impossible.”
“She signed the transfer papers,” he said firmly. “I’ve seen them.”
“No,” I whispered. “She died when I was five.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “But not before she left you with someone else.”
My chest tightened painfully. “My mother never...”
“You don’t know everything about her,” he said. “And you’re not ready to.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks. Hot. Reckless. Uncontrollable.
“Why?” I cried. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“Because no one was supposed to know,” he murmured. “This was meant to stay buried.”
“Except your father,” I whispered bitterly.
“Yes.”
“And you.”
He hesitated...a long silence that confirmed everything.
“I found out later,” he said at last.
“Ethan… what am I?” I whispered, voice trembling.
This time, he moved slowly. Gently, carefully...like approaching a wounded animal.