Chapter 2 The Genetic Revelation #3
"The scarring," she said. "The thing my doctors said meant I couldn't conceive. You're saying it actually helps with your marker."
"That's what the data shows."
"And you trust the data. Your family's data."
"I trust the science, not the family," he said as he turned away.
"My grandmother started the fertility research because she couldn't have children.
Three miscarriages. She built the lab to understand why.
The research saved other women from the same pain.
It wasn't about money; it was about answers. "
"And now it's about money."
"Now it's about both. The company is worth billions. The research is its foundation. Without an heir carrying Variant 7, the research can't continue. The family loses the patent, and funding dries up."
"And you care about that. The company. The money."
"I care about my grandmother's work. I care about the women who found answers through her research.
I care about not letting it die." He set his glass down.
"But I'm not asking you to save my family's company.
I'm asking you to consider the possibility that you can have a child. Your child. Our child."
The word "our" struck her deeply, in a place she'd locked away.
"You're not asking," she said. "You said you weren't asking."
"I'm not. I'm hoping. There's a difference."
She set her glass down, her hand trembling. "I can't do this job. I can't stand in this kitchen at 3 AM and talk about having your baby like it's a reasonable conversation."
"I know."
"We're stepsiblings."
"I know."
"We met five years ago at a party and kissed in a hallway."
"I know."
"Your family wrote a breeding clause into a will."
"I know."
"Stop agreeing with me."
"What do you want me to say?"
She didn't know. That was the problem. She didn't know what she wanted. She wanted him to fight for her. She wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted him to stay away.
She wanted to stop wanting him.
"I want you to stop looking at me like that," she said.
"Like what?"
"Like you're imagining me pregnant. Like you're imagining your child inside me."
He closed his eyes, his jaw tight. When he opened them, raw hunger showed.
"I can't stop," he said. "I've tried."
She walked toward the door. She'd to leave the kitchen, escape him, and escape the heat in her chest and the ache between her thighs.
She reached the doorway. His hand caught her arm.
Not hard, not forceful. Just his fingers on her wrist. A question.
She stopped, not turning.
"Vesper."
"Don't."
"I need to say one thing."
She closed her eyes. "Say it."
"If you decide no, I'll accept it. I'll sign whatever you need. I'll ensure the estate transfers without the clause. I'll protect you from my family. Whatever you need."
She turned. He stood close, too close. His bare chest is inches from her robe. His hand is still on her wrist. She felt his pulse against her skin, fast and not as controlled as he pretended.
"And if I decide yes?"
His grip tightened. His breath caught. "Then I'll spend every night of the next year ensuring you never regret it."
The words electrified her. Her body responded before her mind. Heat flooded her. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her robe. Wetness built between her thighs.
She pulled her arm free, inching back. His hand dropped.
"I need time," she said.
"Take it."
She walked away, up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. She closed the door and leaned against it. Her heart hammered. Her body burned.
She slid to the floor, pressing her forehead against her knees. She breathed.
She stayed there until the sun rose.
Morning. Gray light filled the window. She dragged herself to the desk. The files remained: his, hers, and the compatibility report.
She began organizing them, putting them in order. She tried to make sense of the chaos, seeking the thread that would lead her to a decision she could live with.
At the bottom of the stack, she found an unfamiliar file.
A single page. A photograph clipped to it.
The photograph showed her and Cillian. The photograph was taken at a party in Cambridge five years ago. The hallway. The kiss. Someone had taken a picture. She'd not known.
Below the photo, a handwritten note. Elegant script. Old-fashioned.
She's the one. I've waited a long time to find her. Make sure she stays.
Signed: Eleanor Thorne.
His grandmother.
Vesper stared at the note. The woman had known. Before the wedding. Before the will. Before any of it. Eleanor Thorne had seen the photo and made a decision.
Vesper was not a co-executor. Not a guest. Not even a surprise.
She was a plan. Years in the making. Designed by a dead woman who wanted a grandchild and found the woman who could provide one.
Vesper set the note down. Her hands were steady. Something tough, clear, cold, and sharp formed inside her.
She would not be a pawn for Cillian, his family, or a dead woman's wish.
If the event happened, it would happen on her terms. Her choice. Her conditions.
She picked up the note and left the room.
She had a stepbrother to confront.