Chapter 68 How should I do

Tommy nodded, handing me what looked like a secure tablet case. "Mr. Jones asked me to deliver this personally and to ensure you arrived home safely."

"Of course he did," I muttered, taking the package. "Thank you, Tommy."

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked, his usual professional demeanor tinged with what seemed like genuine concern.

I shook my head. "Just some privacy. And maybe a time machine to go back to when my life made sense."

Tommy offered a sympathetic smile. "For what it's worth, Ms.—Diana—Mr. Jones has been searching for you for a very long time. Finding you meant a great deal to him."

I studied Tommy's face. "Did you know? This whole time, did you know who I really was?"

"Not until recently," he admitted. "Mr. Jones is very... compartmentalized with information."

"That's one way to put it," I said with a humorless laugh. "Good night, Tommy."

Inside my apartment, I set the tablet on my coffee table and just stared at it for a long moment. It contained answers—answers to questions I hadn't even known to ask until a few hours ago. Did I really want to open that Pandora's box tonight?

But the alternative was sitting here with my thoughts spiraling, imagining scenarios that might be worse than the truth. Better to know, I decided. Better to face whatever reality waited inside that digital file.

I made myself a cup of tea, changed into comfortable clothes, and settled on my couch. Taking a deep breath, I opened the tablet case.

The device inside was sleek and obviously high-security. It required my fingerprint to unlock—Bernard had clearly prepared this in advance, which was both efficient and slightly creepy, as usual.

The screen lit up with a simple file directory labeled "Morris/Peters Case File: Complete." I tapped it open, and an extensive collection of documents appeared, organized chronologically.

The first file was dated twenty-eight years ago. The headline made my breath catch: "Morris Infant Kidnapped from Family Estate."

I began to read, diving into the history I never knew was mine. I had never been more grateful that curiosity was built into my natural personality.

The report detailed how six-month-old Elizabeth Diana Morris—me—had been taken from my crib in the Morris family's Westchester estate during what should have been a secure family gathering. The nanny had been drugged, the investigation had initially focused on the household staff but eventually pointed to Thomas Johnson, a business rival of Gregory Morris with a personal vendetta against the family.

There were police reports, private investigator findings, newspaper clippings—all documenting the frantic search for the missing Morris baby. I saw pictures of my birth parents: Elizabeth Morris, a beautiful woman with my same dark hair and eyes, looking devastated in every photo after the kidnapping; and James Morris, Gregory's son, who had apparently died in a car accident five years after my disappearance.

Then I found a section dedicated to Bernard Jones. The file detailed how he had been orphaned at seventeen and taken in by Gregory Morris after showing exceptional promise in a youth technology program Gregory had funded. Bernard had been formally adopted at seventeen, making him legally Elizabeth Morris's brother—and therefore my uncle.

I stared at the adoption papers, at the photos of a teenage Bernard standing stiffly beside Gregory at various functions. He looked so young, so different from the controlled, confident man I knew now, but the intensity in his eyes was the same.

I kept reading, moving through the years of investigation, the false leads, the gradual loss of hope. I learned that my birth mother had suffered a breakdown after my father's death, retreating into a world of her own making where I was still a baby who would come home any day.

Then the file shifted, picking up ten years ago when Bernard had joined Morris Industries and been tasked with continuing the search using more modern methods. His methodical approach was documented in detailed reports—databases searched, adoption records examined, genetic testing companies secretly accessed.

The breakthrough had come just over a year ago when a facial recognition algorithm Bernard had developed identified me from my professional photo on the Apex Marketing website. The resemblance to historical photos of my mother at my age had triggered the system.

I stared at the side-by-side comparison of my corporate headshot next to a photo of Elizabeth Morris in her twenties. The resemblance was uncanny—same eyes, same nose, same mouth.

From there, Bernard's surveillance had begun—first remote observation, then the coffee shop "coincidences," and finally the DNA confirmation from my discarded coffee cup. The genetic match to preserved Morris family samples had been conclusive: 99.9998% certainty that I was the missing Morris heir.

The file continued with detailed reports on Thomas Johnson's current activities, including what appeared to be corporate espionage against Morris Industries' green energy project. Bernard's assessment was that Johnson's opposition to the project was motivated by both business interests and his ongoing vendetta against the Morris family.

I read until my eyes burned, absorbing this alternate history of my life. By the time I reached the end—Bernard's most recent security assessment following our dinner at his penthouse—it was past midnight.

I set the tablet down, my mind racing. Everything Bernard had told me appeared to be documented here. My kidnapping. My birth family. The potential danger from Thomas Johnson. It all checked out, at least according to these files.

But several questions remained unanswered: Why hadn't Bernard told me all this sooner? Why the elaborate charade of the job offer and the carefully managed "accidental" meeting? And most troublingly, why had he allowed a romantic connection to develop between us when he knew exactly who I was to him?

As if sensing my thoughts, my phone buzzed with a text from Bernard:

"Have you reviewed the file?"

I stared at the message, trying to decide how I felt. Angry? Yes. Confused? Definitely. Disgusted by the realization that I'd been developing feelings for my own uncle?

"Yes," I texted back. "It's a lot to process."

His response came immediately: "I know. Take all the time you need. But please remember the security protocols. Johnson has people watching."

I frowned at the screen. "Are you saying I'm being watched now?"

"We have counter-surveillance in place," Bernard replied. "But caution is still warranted."

Great. More surveillance. More watching. More control.

"I need some space," I texted. "Don't contact me until I reach out first. And for the record, I think it was cruel of you to let things develop between us knowing who I was to you."

There was a long pause before his response came through: "You're right. It was inexcusable. I'm sorry, Diana. I'll respect your wish for space. Stay safe."

I turned off my phone, suddenly too exhausted to think anymore. I had just discovered that my entire life was essentially a lie, that I was the missing heir to a corporate fortune, that my birth mother was alive but mentally ill, and that some business rival who'd kidnapped me as a baby might still pose a danger to me.

And somewhere in all that mess was Bernard Jones—my uncle. The man who'd found me, brought me back into the Morris family, and then complicated everything by developing feelings for me. Feelings that I'd started to return, before tonight's revelation had thrown everything into chaos and disgust.

I curled up on my couch, pulling a blanket around me. I was too tired to make it to my bedroom, too overwhelmed to do anything but close my eyes and hope for the oblivion of sleep.

Tomorrow I would have to figure out what to do with this new reality. Tomorrow I would have to decide who I was going to be: Diana Peters, the marketing specialist with a normal life, or Elizabeth Diana Morris, the long-lost heiress to an industrial fortune.

Tonight, I just needed to rest.

But as I drifted toward sleep, one thought kept circling in my mind: Bernard—my uncle Bernard—had found me. After twenty-eight years, he had found me when everyone else had failed. And whatever his methods, whatever his motivations, that fact remained.

The question was: could I ever look at him the same way again, knowing what I knew now? Could I ever separate my feelings for him from the sickening knowledge that he was, legally at least, my uncle?

And even if I could, should I?