Chapter 2 - The Father Behind the Locked Doors
Adrian’s blood reached Ethan twelve minutes later.
I knew because I watched the nurse carry the bag past me.
A dark red line ran through the tubing.
My son was being kept alive by the father he did not know existed.
I sat against the wall.
One of Adrian’s men remained near the elevator.
Another stood beside the stairwell.
Neither spoke to me.
Twenty minutes later, Adrian came out of the donor room with a white bandage around his arm.
His jacket was gone.
His sleeves were rolled up.
He walked directly toward me.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It’s all I know.”
Adrian stopped in front of me.
For seven years, I had imagined this confrontation.
In some versions he screamed.
In others, he threatened me.
Sometimes he simply turned around and walked away.
The reality was worse.
He spoke quietly.
“Tell me he isn’t mine.”
I looked at him.
“I can’t.”
Something in his face broke.
He stepped back once.
“You had my son.”
“Adrian—”
“For seven years.”
“I had reasons.”
“Seven years, Claire.”
His voice never rose, but everyone nearby suddenly found somewhere else to look.
“I thought you were dead for three months.”
I flinched.
“I know.”
“You know?”
He laughed once without humor.
“I searched California. Nevada. Arizona. I had people checking airports, hospitals, morgues.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You disappeared from our apartment without a note.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
I didn’t answer.
That answer hurt him more than if I had said yes.
He looked toward the trauma room.
“Does he know anything about me?”
“No.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That his father wasn’t part of our lives.”
“So you turned me into a man who abandoned his child.”
“I kept him away from your world.”
“My world?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Yes.”
“You mean the world you lived in with me for three years?”
“The world where men followed us home.”
“That happened once.”
“One time was enough.”
“It was handled.”
“That sentence is why I left.”
Adrian stared at me.
Before he could answer, Dr. Mercer approached.
“Mr. Blackwood. Mrs. Bennett.”
We both turned.
“The transfusion is working.”
My legs nearly failed.
“Ethan?”
“His pressure is stabilizing.”
I covered my mouth.
Adrian said nothing.
Dr. Mercer continued.
“We identified the disorder.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“A rare inherited platelet-function abnormality. Ethan’s platelets are present, but under stress they fail to clot properly.”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“You’ve seen it before.”
He nodded slowly.
“My mother.”
I stared at him.
“You never told me.”
“She died when I was twelve. I was told it couldn’t be passed through me.”
Dr. Mercer shook her head.
“Apparently that assumption was wrong.”
Adrian looked toward the trauma room.
“So this came from me.”
“No one caused this,” Dr. Mercer said. “What matters is that his genetic markers strongly overlap with yours. That makes you an unusually compatible donor.”
“How often will he need me?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then run every test.”
“We are.”
“I want specialists flown in.”
Dr. Mercer’s expression hardened.
“This is a hospital, Mr. Blackwood, not one of your companies.”
Adrian stared at her.
Then nodded.
“Fine.”
She seemed surprised.
“But if there is a physician anywhere in the country who understands this disorder better than you do, call them. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
“That I can work with.”
She left.
I looked at Adrian.
“You didn’t know?”
“About carrying it? No.”
His voice had gone quiet.
“My mother used to wake up covered in bruises. Sometimes her nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. When I was eight, I found her unconscious in the bathroom.”
I had never heard him talk about her.
Not once.
“She died during surgery four years later.”
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes shifted back to me.
“Did Ethan ever bruise easily?”
“Sometimes.”
“Nosebleeds?”
“A few.”
“And you never had him tested?”
“I thought he was a normal kid.”
Adrian nodded.
The judgment I expected never came.
Instead, he sat beside me.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked, “What does he like?”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
“My son.”
The word sounded strange in his mouth.
“What does he like?”
I swallowed.
“Dinosaurs.”
Adrian nodded seriously.
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
“That’s not helpful.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“He likes astronomy,” I added. “Basketball. Peanut butter sandwiches with too much jelly.”
“School?”
“Second grade.”
“Good student?”
“He corrects his teacher.”
Adrian looked at me.
“That sounds genetic.”
I stared at him.
Then we both heard it.
A small voice from the room.
“Mom?”
I jumped up.
Dr. Mercer appeared at the door.
“He’s awake.”
I rushed inside.
Ethan looked tiny beneath the blankets.
Pale.
Exhausted.
But awake.
I kissed his forehead.
“Hey, baby.”
“You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Don’t argue with your mother.”
A male voice came from behind me.
Ethan looked past my shoulder.
Adrian had stopped in the doorway.
My son studied him.
Then frowned.
“Who are you?”
Adrian Blackwood—the man prosecutors feared, businessmen obeyed, and grown men refused to cross—stood frozen.
He looked at me.
I realized he was asking permission.
I nodded once.
Adrian stepped closer.
“My name is Adrian.”
Ethan studied his face.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Cop?”
One of the guards outside coughed.
Adrian glanced toward him.
“No.”
“Then why is everybody scared of you?”
Adrian actually smiled.
“Good question.”
Ethan looked at the bandage on Adrian’s arm.
“You gave me blood.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian looked at me.
I knew the lie had reached its end.
I took Ethan’s hand.
May you like
“Sweetheart, there’s something I need to tell you.”
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