Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary at Blackwood Manor
The gates of Blackwood Manor groaned open like the jaws of a sleeping iron beast.
Noelle sat in the leather interior of the armored sedan, her hands tucked tightly between her knees. Beside her, Damian Marchetti was on his phone, his low, stern voice issuing orders to a dozen different security teams and legal operatives across the city.
"I want Dr. Harrison’s financial records from the last three years," Damian ordered quietly into the receiver. "Every offshore account, every property wire, every private donation to St. Jude’s. Do not notify the hospital board yet. Lock down his private clinic files before sunrise."
He ended the call and leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
Noelle stared out the tinted window. The estate was massive, set deep within fifty acres of private forest on the outskirts of Boston. High stone walls, security cameras, and armed guards in dark tactical gear lined the winding driveway. It was a fortress designed to keep the world out—or keep something precious inside.
"They're upstairs," Damian said quietly without opening his eyes. "The third floor east wing. My head nanny, Maria, is with them."
"Are they... are they okay?" Noelle asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Damian opened his eyes, looking at her in the dim cabin light. "They haven't slept through the night in six weeks. They refuse most foods. They cry until they lose their breath. Pediatric specialists told me it was early separation anxiety or developmental colic. I spent two million dollars on the best medical teams in the country, and none of them could tell me why my children were starving themselves."
He paused, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at her damp hair and pale face. "Until thirty minutes ago, when they saw you."
The sedan pulled up to the grand front portico.
Reyes opened the door, holding an umbrella above Noelle as she stepped out onto the marble steps. The double doors of the manor swung open to reveal a grand foyer with arched ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a massive dual staircase.
Before Damian could even cross the threshold, a distant, piercing scream echoed down the grand staircase.
It was the little girl.
Then came the two boys, their cries harmonizing into a desperate, frantic chorus that echoed off the high marble walls.
A woman in a crisp uniform came hurrying down the steps, her face pale with worry. "Mr. Marchetti! Thank God you're back. Clara threw her bottle again, and Leo won't let anyone touch him—"
Maria stopped dead in her tracks as her eyes fell on Noelle.
Noelle didn't wait for permission.
The sound of those cries vibrated through her blood, pulling her forward like an invisible wire tethered directly to her heart. She ignored the guards, ignored the grand grandeur of the house, and ran straight up the carpeted stairs, following the sound.
"Noelle!" Damian called out, his heavy footsteps following close behind her.
She reached the third-floor landing and pushed through a set of double carved-wood doors into a massive, brightly lit nursery filled with plush toys, cribs, and soft pastel murals.
Inside three white wooden cribs, the three babies were kicking, crying, their faces red with exertion.
The moment Noelle stepped into the center of the room, her voice cut through the air.
"I'm here," she breathed, her voice trembling. "I'm right here, sweethearts."
The crying stopped instantly.
It was as if someone had flipped a switch.
The little girl, Clara, hauled herself up by the white wooden bars of her crib, her tiny fingers clutching the railing, her hazel eyes wide with tear-soaked wonder.
The two little boys, Leo and Mateo, spun around on their hands and knees, staring at Noelle with breathy hiccups.
Noelle collapsed to her knees beside the center crib, reaching her hands through the bars. Instantly, three pairs of tiny hands reached out, grasping at her fingers, her sleeves, her hair.
"Mama," Clara whimpered softly, pressing her wet cheek against Noelle’s palm.
"Mama," Leo echoed, pulling Noelle’s index finger into his mouth to soothe his gums.
Mateo simply rested his forehead against the back of Noelle's hand, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute peace.
Behind her, Damian stood in the doorway.
Beside him, an older man wearing a dark suit and carrying a medical bag—Dr. Evans, the Marchetti family’s private physician—stared at the scene in utter bewilderment.
"My God, Damian," Dr. Evans whispered, watching the three infants instantly settle into a serene, tranquil silence the moment Noelle sat among them. "I've monitored these children since the day they arrived here. I have never seen them respond to anyone like this."
Damian didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly into the nursery, kneeling down on the soft rug beside Noelle.
He watched the way her hands moved over the babies' backs—practiced, instinctive, and overflowing with a mother's fierce, ancient devotion. He saw the undeniable resemblance: the soft shape of Clara's nose, the dark curls on Mateo's head, and above all, those mesmerizing hazel eyes with gold flecks around the iris.
"Dr. Evans," Damian said, his voice cold as winter steel. "I want an emergency DNA swab taken immediately. Right here. Right now."
Dr. Evans blinked. "Damian, a DNA test? For what?"
May you like
"A maternal match," Damian replied, never taking his eyes off Noelle. "Between these three children and Noelle Bishop."
Noelle looked up from her children, tears brimming in her eyes, but her gaze was resolute. "Do it. I have nothing to hide."
