Chapter 101
Elizabeth sat in the car on the way back, Jack leaning against her, already asleep, his face still flushed from all the playing around.
She gently stroked the child's hair, but her eyes were unusually cold and sharp.
She recalled the moment when the assassin's blade sliced across Charles's arm—the wound wasn't deep, yet it bled profusely.
For a strike meant to kill quickly, that angle and force seemed less like a miss and more like it was designed to create a wound that would bleed enough.
An absurd yet logical theory formed in her mind—perhaps the attacker's goal from the start wasn't to kill Charles immediately, but to obtain a sample of his blood?
Why would they need Charles's blood?
Paternity testing.
The words exploded in her mind like thunder.
Connecting this to Sawyer's investigation into Hughes, if Sawyer suspected her origins, then obtaining DNA from both her and Charles for comparison would undoubtedly be the most direct method.
Charles's blood had been obtained during the attack.
But what about hers? How would they get it?
Elizabeth felt a chill crawl up her spine.
She had never doubted her own origins. Hughes's affection, the vague memories of her mother's early death, Charles's initial compliance—everything seemed to point to the fact that she was Charles's biological daughter.
Which made Charles's actions all the more beastly.
But what if... what if she wasn't Charles's daughter?
Once this thought took root, it grew like wild vines.
Many things that had seemed contradictory and unreasonable before suddenly had another possible explanation.
Charles's complete lack of affection for her, even his disgust; Hughes leaving most of his estate directly to her with layers of protection; Sophie and Vivian's almost instinctive hostility and persecution toward her.
Perhaps they had known all along?
Elizabeth closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced herself to calm down.
Speculation was useless. She needed evidence.
"Lynx," she spoke quietly into the encrypted communicator, "find a way immediately to get a blood sample from Charles, or hair with follicles, personal items he's used—anything we can extract DNA from. Fast and discreet."
"Yes, Noel." Lynx asked no questions and immediately executed the order.
For the Nightfall organization, obtaining biological samples from Charles—who was receiving treatment in a hospital and whose guard wasn't up against DNA theft—wasn't too difficult.
A few hours later, a DNA sample from Charles, along with one Elizabeth provided herself, was secretly sent to a private testing facility under Nightfall's control—absolutely confidential and technically top-notch.
The wait for results felt unusually long.
Elizabeth maintained her calm exterior, handling daily affairs and spending time with Jack, but inside, she was like a tightly wound string.
Finally, the encrypted report came back.
Elizabeth sat alone in her study, the screen's blue light reflecting off her bloodless face.
She opened the file, her eyes jumping straight to the conclusion.
[Excluding the existence of a biological father-daughter relationship between Sample A and Sample B. Matching probability: 0%.]
Black and white, cold, clear, indisputable.
She really wasn't Charles's daughter.
The hatred that had sustained her for so long suddenly became somewhat blurred and absurd in this moment.
She had hated for so long, plotted for so long, to make her biological father pay in blood—and he turned out to have no blood relation to her at all.
Then whose daughter was she?
Did Hughes know?
Her tragic death in her past life, her revenge in this one—what was it all for?
Countless questions surged like a tide, crashing against everything she knew.
She felt dizzy and had to grip the desk to steady herself.
After a long while, she slowly sat back down in her chair, a bitter smile crossing her face—a mixture of relief, absurdity, coldness, and even deeper hatred.
So that's how it was.
No wonder Charles could push her into hell with no psychological burden, could so greedily and shamelessly fight for the inheritance Hughes left her, could so easily acquiesce to or even participate in her persecution.
Because in his eyes, she had never been his daughter—just a tool to exchange for benefits, an obstacle that needed to be removed.
Her existence was proof of his shame.
Good. Very good.
She no longer had to suffer from losing his love.
He had never been her loving father.
Charles, Sophie, Vivian, Henry—the pain and betrayal they inflicted on her was real, was bone-deep.
This debt must be paid in blood.
And now, since Sawyer might also be going after DNA.
A cold gleam flashed in Elizabeth's eyes.
She wouldn't let him easily get the answers he wanted.
She decided to visit Charles at the hospital.
In the VIP ward area of City Hospital, the air was thick with the smell of disinfectant.
Elizabeth wore a simple black suit, symbolically carrying a fruit basket, her face half-hidden behind sunglasses.
Lynx followed half a step behind her, like a silent, efficient assistant.
Pushing open the hospital room door, the scene inside wasn't surprising.
Charles was half-reclined on the bed, his right arm wrapped in thick bandages, his face still somewhat pale from blood loss and pain, but his spirits were decent as he enjoyed Vivian's attentive care.
Vivian wore a pink dress, carefully spooning soup to feed him, her face showing deliberately performed worry and filial devotion, occasionally asking softly, "Dad, is it too hot? Should I blow on it?"
What a picture of paternal love and filial piety, warm and touching.
In the past, seeing this scene, even with a heart as hard as iron, Elizabeth would inevitably feel a stab of pain and desolation—both daughters, yet treated worlds apart.
She would remember how Charles had once shown her brief, perhaps merely superficial warmth, which after Hughes's death was quickly replaced by Sophie and her daughter, eventually evolving into complete coldness and exploitation.
But now, knowing the truth, her heart was strangely calm, even finding it somewhat ridiculous.
So Charles wasn't cold to her—he simply never considered her his daughter at all.
All the favoritism and cruelty had the most reasonable, and most shameless, explanation.
Elizabeth removed her sunglasses and walked slowly into the room.
Her arrival shattered the room's warmth.
Vivian's spoon-feeding motion froze, a flash of venom and wariness in her eyes, but she quickly forced out a fake smile. "Elizabeth, you're here? Dad was just saying he was worried about you. Amusement parks are so dangerous—thank goodness you're okay."