Chapter 21 Twenty One
THANE
The private study was completely silent. I was sitting in the heavy leather chair behind my mahogany desk. The room was dark, lit only by a single, low-wattage brass lamp sitting on the corner of the wood.
A heavy crystal glass filled with expensive amber scotch sat next to the lamp. It was completely untouched. The ice had melted an hour ago.
I stared straight ahead at the dark bookshelves. I felt like a madman. It had been exactly one week since the explosive meeting at the hospital. One week since Dr. Lia Solene looked down at my mother and refused to operate.
Jaxson’s team of hackers had worked around the clock for seven days. They found absolutely nothing. No birth certificates. No old addresses. No medical records prior to her arrival in Zurich. There was no physical proof that the woman known as Idalia Vance ever existed.
I ran my large hands roughly over my face, feeling the harsh stubble on my jaw. I was gaslighting myself. The complete lack of evidence made me question my own sanity.
Did I imagine her? I asked the empty room. Did I invent the woman who cared for me in the dark? Is my deep, heavy guilt creating a ghost out of thin air?
I closed my eyes and brought up the sensory memory. I remembered the exact smell of her. She smelled like cheap vanilla soap and clean cotton. I remembered the heavy, suffocating pain of my migraines, the soft, cool touch of her small hands pressing against my temples. I remembered the dark night, weeks before my bandages were removed. I thought I was asleep. She leaned down. Her lips brushed against my ear. She whispered her real name into the dark.
Idalia.
Her voice was smooth, heavy velvet. It was real. I knew it was real.
I opened my eyes. I stood up from the desk. The four walls of the study felt like a prison. I needed to move.
I walked out of the study and walked down the long, dark hallway of the penthouse and stepped into the master bedroom.
The lighting in the room was dim. The massive space felt like a modern luxury tomb. It was cold, expensive, and completely devoid of life.
Camilla was there. She was waiting for me.
She wanted to claim me. She wanted to pull my focus back to her. I sat on the edge of the heavy mattress. I leaned back against the headboard as Camilla knelt on the floor between my legs.
She was sucking my dick.
I stared blankly at the dark ceiling. I kept my hands resting flat on the expensive silk bedsheets. I did not touch her hair. I did not touch her shoulders. I felt the physical friction. I felt the wet heat of her mouth. I felt the heavy, rhythmic pressure. But in my chest, I felt absolutely nothing. It was an absolute, terrifying emotional void. I was a million miles away from this cold bedroom.
While her mouth moved, my mind went back to the coffee shop. I thought about the small, dark mole resting on the pale skin of Dr. Solene’s neck. I thought about the sharp, violent flash of hate in her stormy gray eyes when I grabbed her arms.
I compared the physical reality to the memory. Camilla’s touch was desperate. It was needy. It was a transaction to secure her place in my bank account. Idalia’s touch was an anchor. It was a quiet, steady devotion that asked for absolutely nothing in return.
A heavy, sick wave of self-disgust hit the back of my throat. I was using Camilla’s body to try and find a woman who was not in this room. I was chasing a ghost through the flesh of a copy. It was pathetic. It was hollow.
I reached down. I grabbed Camilla firmly by the shoulders.
"Stop," I said. My voice was a flat, hard rasp.
She pulled back. She looked up at me, wiping her mouth. Her dark eyes were confused and hurt.
"Did I do something wrong?" she whispered.
"I have to go," I said. I did not explain. I did not offer a comforting lie.
I stood up. I fixed my clothes. I grabbed my keys from the heavy dresser and walked out of the bedroom without looking back.
Ten minutes later, I was driving my black SUV through the dark New York streets. The city was quiet at this hour. Thick white steam rose from the metal grates in the asphalt, swirling violently in the cold wind.
I drove without a destination, but my hands knew exactly where to steer the heavy wheel.
I pulled onto a quiet, incredibly expensive street on the Upper East Side. I stopped the massive vehicle in the shadows. I put the SUV in park. I sat in the dark cabin and looked across the street.
I stared at the modern, multi-million dollar townhouse. It belonged to Dr. Lia Solene.
A single light was on in a window on the second floor. I watched the warm yellow glow against the glass. I gripped the thick leather of the steering wheel until my knuckles ached.
I thought about the twins. Leo and Mia.
I sat in the dark and did the hard, brutal math in my head. I counted the months. I counted the years. The twins were four years old. It had been exactly five years since the fiery car crash that supposedly killed my wife.
I closed my eyes. I remembered the heavy, passionate nights in my bed before my surgery. I remembered pulling her small body hard against my chest. We did not use protection. We did not care.
She was pregnant.
I opened my eyes. I stared at the front door of the townhouse. The math was perfect. The timeline was flawless. The boy had my exact, piercing blue eyes. He had my jaw. He had my blood running through his veins.
A violent, possessive, purely primal urge exploded in my gut. It was a heavy, dark fire. I wanted to open the door of the SUV. I wanted to march across the wet concrete pavement. I wanted to kick the heavy wooden front door of that townhouse off its hinges. I wanted to storm up the stairs, grab her by the shoulders, and demand the absolute truth.
I wanted to claim what belonged to me.