Chapter 6 - Lorenzo’s Wife Had Not Died Naturally—And the Truth Revealed That My Own Birth Was Connected to Her DeathThe investigation led us to a private clinic in Connecticut.
The records were old.
But intact.
Lorenzo's wife, Isabella, had not died from natural causes.
She had been poisoned.
Slowly.
Over months.
The symptoms had been disguised as illness.
Her death had been engineered.
Why?
Because she had discovered Maria.
She had discovered Lorenzo's affair.
But more importantly—
she had discovered me.
She had believed Lorenzo's father was trying to kill his illegitimate daughter.
So she tried to save me.
She had contacted my mother.
She had arranged for our escape.
That made my breath catch.
“She saved me.”
“Yes,” Adrien said.
“She didn't hate my mother.”
“No.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was killed before she could finish.”
I cried.
My father's wife had died protecting me.
The world suddenly felt smaller.
I had spent my whole life thinking I was born from betrayal.
But there had been kindness inside the betrayal too.
There were people who had tried to protect me.
One of them had paid with her life.
We discovered her final letter.
It had been addressed to Lorenzo.
If our marriage has given me anything, it is the knowledge that you loved Maria.
Do not punish yourself for loving her.
Protect the child.
She is innocent.
One day, she will find you.
Lorenzo read it.
He cried.
I sat beside him.
I held his hand.
“It wasn't your fault.”
He looked at me.
“Thank you.”
Then the door exploded.
Gunfire.
Adrien pulled me down.
Security fought back.
A woman escaped through the rear entrance.
We chased her.
But she disappeared.
She left behind a scarf.
Inside was a hidden photograph.
My grandmother.
Standing with Isabella.
And a third woman.
The Archivist.
We had a face.
We just didn't have a name.
Then my mother called.
“Claraara.”
“Yes?”
“I know her.”
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
“The woman in the photograph.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Evelyn Hart.”
I wrote it down.
“Who is she?”
My mother went silent.
“She was my closest friend.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
“She died twenty years ago.”
I stared.
“Then who is the woman in the photograph?”
She whispered,
“Her daughter.”
We searched.
The daughter was named Celia Hart.
Age forty.
Missing.
No current address.
No known employment.
No photographs after age twenty-eight.
It was as if she had disappeared from the world.
Adrien found one record.
A hotel.
In Chicago.
We flew there.
The room was empty.
But someone had been there recently.
On the desk lay a notebook.
Inside—
our names.
Mine.
Lorenzo's.
Adrien's.
My mother's.
And underneath mine:
The daughter must choose.
I stared.
“Choose what?”
Then the television turned on.
Celia appeared on the screen.
She smiled.
“You've come farther than I expected.”
Adrien stepped forward.
“Where are you?”
“Closer than you think.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“You have five minutes.”
She laughed.
“You still sound like your father.”
I looked at the screen.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to remember that inheritance is not money.”
“Then what is it?”
“Memory.”
The screen went black.
I stared.
Adrien turned to me.
“She knows something about you.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
Go to Loven.
My heart dropped.
The restaurant where everything started.
We returned that night.
The dining room was empty.
Table One was untouched.
On the plate was a single piece of bread.
Beside it—
a photograph of my mother.
And a note.
Ask Lorenzo what happened the night he met Maria.
I looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
May you like
Then whispered,
“That night wasn't our first meeting.”
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