Chapter 171 The DNA Report
Julian：POV
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new apartment, the DNA report from Damien Ashford clutched in my hand. The paper trembled slightly—not from nerves, but from the sheer force of emotion coursing through me.
Probability of Paternity: 99.97%
The numbers blurred as I read them for the tenth time. I'd been staring at this report for twenty minutes, and each time those digits rearranged themselves into the same undeniable truth.
Lila was mine.
A laugh escaped me—rough, unsteady, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. Ever since that day at Harrods when I'd seen her small hand in Elena's, those familiar eyes looking up at me with innocent curiosity, I'd known.
Deep in my bones, I'd known she was mine.
And now I had proof.
Damien had called three days ago, his voice tight with frustration. "We have a problem. The girl's information is locked down tighter than MI6 files. Birth certificate, medical records—everything's been encrypted. Military-grade security protocols."
"What does that mean?"
"Someone doesn't want anyone digging into her background. Someone with serious resources." He'd paused. "This isn't standard privacy protection. This is deliberate concealment."
Alexander. Of course. He'd hidden Elena from the world for four years, built her a new identity. Why wouldn't he do the same for Lila?
"Can you break through it?"
"Yes. But it's going to take time and cost you."
I hadn't hesitated. "Do it. Whatever it takes."
Those three days had been torture. I'd paced this sterile apartment like a caged animal, my phone always within reach. The waiting had given me too much time to think about what those encryption layers meant.
Blake's messages from yesterday still burned in my memory:
Blake: [I just saw her. ACTUALLY SAW HER. Elena. Your Elena.]
Blake: [She had a little girl with her. Maybe four years old? Dark hair, your eyes, your fucking NOSE. That kid is yours.]
He'd sent a blurry photo—Elena's profile, partially obscured by a little girl's head pressed against her shoulder. I'd zoomed in until the pixels distorted, studying every visible detail of my daughter's face.
Blake: [The resemblance is INSANE. She has your mouth, mate. Even the way she purses her lips when she's concentrating—just like you do. Saw it happen three times while Elena was ordering.]
Now, holding the DNA report that confirmed Blake's certainty, the description felt prophetic.
My daughter. I had a daughter.
Four years of birthday parties I'd missed, first words I hadn't heard, scraped knees I hadn't bandaged. Four years of her life that had happened without me, because everyone—including Elena herself—believed I didn't deserve to know.
The anger that thought sparked was immediate and molten. Alexander had known. Had to have known, all this time, that Lila was mine. And he'd kept her from me, built himself a neat little family on the foundation of my grief.
Those encryption layers made perfect sense now. He'd been protecting his lie.
But beneath the rage was something more potent: determination.
I was going to find Elena. Today. Right now. I was going to show her this report, make her understand that whatever Alexander had told her about our past, she deserved to know the truth.
And Lila deserved to know her father.
I grabbed my keys and phone, my movements sharp with purpose. Damien had included Elena's work address in his report—some textile design studio in Shoreditch. The irony wasn't lost on me. She'd always wanted to focus on design, back when she'd been trapped in that assistant role at Sterling Fashion.
The drive across London should have calmed me, given me time to plan what I'd say. Instead, I found myself pressing harder on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with single-minded focus. The DNA report felt like it was burning a hole through my jacket.
For the first time in four years, I felt something like hope unfurling in my chest. Elena was alive. Lila was mine. The future I'd thought was dead and buried was suddenly, impossibly, within reach.
I was maybe three blocks from the studio when I heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched, terrified, distinctly female. It cut through the ambient noise like a blade, and my foot slammed on the brake instinctively.
I strained to listen, my heart suddenly pounding. Had I imagined it? The street around me continued its normal rhythm—cars honking, a bus rumbling past, someone shouting into their phone.
You're being paranoid. Just get to the studio.
I eased back onto the gas, but something felt wrong. That scream had come from somewhere close, somewhere to my left where a narrow alley cut between two buildings.
I kept driving. Made it another half block before the unease in my gut became unbearable.
What if it was her?
The thought was absurd. London was a city of nine million people. The chances of that scream belonging to Elena were astronomical.
But I couldn't shake it.
I wrenched the wheel hard, ignoring the angry horn from the car behind me, and pulled an illegal U-turn. My pulse was hammering now, that same instinct that had once told me something was wrong with Elena's coffee in the hospital.
I parked haphazardly at the mouth of the alley and killed the engine.
The alley was narrow, shadowed, graffiti crawling up the brick walls. The smell of rotting garbage hung thick in the air.
And there, maybe thirty feet in, I saw them.
A stocky man in a cheap suit, dragging a woman in business attire toward a black van idling at the far end. The woman was struggling weakly, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, like she was drugged.
I couldn't see her face. But I could see her hair—long, brown, the exact shade of honey-dark that I'd memorized over three years of marriage.
My vision went red.
I didn't think, and moved.
My footsteps echoed off the brick as I closed the distance in seconds. The man heard me coming and turned, his eyes widening, but he was too slow.
I drove my foot into his side with every ounce of force I had, felt the satisfying impact. He went sprawling, his grip on the woman releasing as he hit the ground.
"Get the fuck out of here," I snarled, standing over him. "Now."
He scrambled backward, eyes wide as he took in my size, the fury radiating off me, the fact that I was clearly prepared to do a lot worse than just knock him down.
He scrambled to his feet and ran, limping slightly, disappearing around the corner.
The woman had collapsed against the wall, her breathing ragged. I turned to her, my hands shaking with adrenaline, and finally saw her face.
Elena.
My Elena, with blood on her hands and a shallow cut on her throat and eyes that were struggling to focus.
"Elena," I breathed, dropping to my knees beside her. My hands hovered over her shoulders, desperate to touch her but terrified of making things worse. "Jesus Christ, Elena. What happened?"