Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ALEXANDER
My world implodes, the room around me spinning as Victoria’s announcement reaches the inner recesses of my mind.
Everything I’ve ever believed is a lie. A lie born out of a vile assault on my own mother.
I’m not my father’s son. I’m not the person I thought I was.
Who am I? A product of rape? A child created from a heinous violation of trust. My mother was raped. Raped. And I’m the product.
Every day, for the past twenty years, I’ve wished my twin sister was still alive, but now? I’m fucking glad she isn’t. She died without knowing the truth—the godawful truth I’m now faced with.
He’s dead. Dead.
I will murder him with my bare hands. I will rip him limb from limb, his pleas for mercy meeting cold indifference.
“—sit down.”
A sudden yank on my arm snaps me back to the present. My siblings, my wife, and my sister-in-law are all watching me with alarm etched across their faces. Nicholas is nearest, his thighs flexed, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
“Get the fuck off me.” My eyes fall on Mum’s journal lying on the floor. I snatch it up and hurtle for the door. Nicholas dives in front of me, hands out in front, barring my exit.
“Move, Nicholas.”
“Xan, wait. God, wait , brother.”
“Brother?” I bark a mirthless laugh. “I’m as much a cousin as I am your brother. Jesus Christ.” I rake one hand through my hair, the book of secrets burning my hand as though it were in flames. “Get out of my fucking way.”
“No.” He casts his gaze behind me, and Christian and Tobias move into position on either side of him, forming a barricade. They won’t stop me. Nothing can stop me. Pure, blind rage clouds my vision.
“Let me go, Nicholas.”
“Not like this. Not until you tell us what you’re planning to do.”
“Kill. Him.”
“Xan.” Nicholas grips my upper arms, and my wife’s palm lands on my lower back, the heat from it bleeding through my jacket and shirt. “You need to talk to Dad.”
“Dad? That’s just it, Nicholas. He’s not my fucking father.”
“Yes, he is,” Imogen says. “Baby, he is. A father is more than DNA. Charles has been there for you your entire life.”
“Only because he doesn’t know the truth.” The bitterness in my voice tastes like ashes on my tongue, soot in my throat. “Once he does, he’ll see things differently.”
“He won’t,” Christian says. “Dad wouldn’t do that. You’re his son, his heir. He fucking adores you. Always has.”
Tobias nods. “Truth. I mean, I’m not bitter about it or anything.” He laughs. It’s textbook Tobias to try to bring humor to a highly charged situation, but he’s picked the wrong time.
I glare at him. “You think this is amusing, huh, Tobias? Fuck off.”
My genial brother—fuck, half-brother—doesn’t miss a beat. “Rail on me all you like. I’m happy to be your punching bag if that’s what you need. But for the love of God, give yourself a few moments to think this through. You’re the logical one. The unflappable one. I get it. You want George to pay, and he will. Believe me, that man will pay for what he did to our mother, but you have to talk to Dad first.”
Imogen moves into my sightline, and the minute I see the concern etched into every inch of her face, I deflate. My life might have been upended, and everything I’ve ever believed about who I am and where I came from crushed to dust, but she is real. Our baby is real and due any day now. My life with her is real and solid.
Like an open book, she reads my change in demeanor. She slides her arms around my neck and moves into my body, her pregnant belly pressing against me. The baby kicks, as though it, too, is letting me know everything will be okay.
My brothers are right; I have to talk to Dad, and before I say a word, I know it’ll be the hardest conversation I’ve ever had to have.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Imogen murmurs.
“No.” It’s better if I do this alone.
She releases me, then caresses my face. I capture her hand and hold it there for a few seconds. “We’re all here for you.”
I nod, words of gratitude sticking in my throat. I kiss my wife and place my palm on her baby bump. “Stay close. I need you.”
“I’ll be right here. I love you.”
My legs are like two blocks of lead as I make my way to Dad’s area of the house. Despite what I said back there, to me he is and always will be my father. The answer to the question I’m afraid to ask is whether he still thinks of me as his son once I share the truth of my birth. God, I hope so. Charles De Vil is someone I’ve looked up to my entire life, and I can’t bear the thought of him seeing me as less than.
He’s in his office, sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone. He motions to me, then points at the seat opposite his desk. My legs jiggle as I wait for him to finish his conversation, my gaze drawn to a picture on his desk of him and my mother. Dad swaps them out every few weeks, and this one is new. I reach for it and pick it up, tracing Mum’s face with my fingertip. I’d guess they’re in their early to mid-thirties in this photo. It’s taken outside, probably somewhere on the estate. Dad’s standing behind Mum, and he’s got his arms around her upper chest while she’s holding onto his forearm and smiling into the camera.
“We didn’t know it at the time, but your mum was pregnant with Saskia in that photo.”
I startle, lost enough in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard him end his phone call. I replace the photo on his desk.
“You both look happy.”
“We were. I spent eighteen wonderful years with your mother.”
“Not enough,” I murmur.
“No. Truthfully, eighty years wouldn’t have been enough. She was an incredible woman.”
He turns his gaze on the photo, and his eyes glaze over as though he’s lost in the memory of that day. After a few seconds, he blinks. Knitting his hands together, he rests them in his lap and leans back in his chair.
“What have you got there?” He gestures to the journal.
I grip the leather-bound book until my knuckles whiten and pray for the strength to see this through.
“It’s Mum’s.”
I briefly update him on finding the key all those months ago, but never knowing what it might have fitted right through to Nicholas finding the box hidden behind one of Mum’s paintings.
In typical fashion, Dad doesn’t interrupt me. That skill is one of the many things I adore about my father. He lets people talk, and he just listens. Only when I pause for breath does he speak.
“Your mum did journal on occasion, although she wasn’t as prolific or dedicated as you.” He holds out his hand. “May I see it?”
“Not yet. Dad…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck.”
He sits up straighter, resting the edges of his hands on his desk. “Alexander, what is it?”
Now the time’s come, I can’t find the words. I don’t know where to start. However this comes out, it’s going to destroy my father, and when he looks back, I’m afraid the only thing he’ll remember is that it was me who wrecked his memories of my mother and his love for his brother.
“Son, you’re worrying me now. Come on. Spit it out.”
Rip off the plaster. Say it fast. Say it now. Do it.
“Uncle George raped Mum the night before your wedding, and Annabel and I are his kids, not yours.”
The words rush out in a jumble, but Dad gets the gist. If I’d punched him in the face, I could not have shocked my father any more than my spluttered confession has done. He reels backward, his chair slamming into the bookcase behind him. Blood drains from his face, and his hands shake when he lifts them to push a non-existent lock of hair away.
“Your mother says that? In there?”
“Yes.” Unable to look at him for a moment longer, I squeeze my eyes closed. “I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.”
“Give it to me, Alexander.” The quiet way he asks and the gentle tone to his voice forces my eyes open. My hands shake as I pass him the journal.
Silence thickens the air as he flips through, his eyes traveling across the pages at lightning speed. I can tell when he reaches the part Nicholas read out because he stops, and this murderous expression comes over his face. Without saying a word, he continues reading. My heart is in my mouth, and my fight or flight instincts are urging me to flee. The next time he looks at me, I’ll know the truth, and I’m not ready for it. I’ll never be ready for him to look at me differently than he has for thirty-six years.
The book snaps shut, and I jump. His eyes travel to mine. I look away.
“Alexander.”
I force them back to him. “Sir?”
He gets to his feet, rounds his desk, and stands in front of my chair, looming over me. “Get up.”
I’m not a man who fears much, but as I push to my feet, my knees knock together. I’ve spent my life loving and respecting this man. If he rejects me, I won’t handle it.
He clasps my upper arms. “You are my son. You have always been my son, and you will still be my son even after I leave this life and go be with your mother.”
Relief slams into me. My shoulders sag. “And you’re my father. I love you, Dad.”
His eyes brim with tears, and he doesn’t stop them falling down his cheeks. The last time I saw my dad cry was at Mum’s funeral, and seeing him break down is my undoing. My own tears fall, and we hug one another for several minutes, each of us seemingly unwilling to let the other one go.
It’s me who breaks away first. I scrub my face and dry my eyes. Dad grabs a tissue from a box on his desk and blows his nose.
“Would you like me to organize a DNA test? Just in case your mother was mistaken, and before you answer, know that whatever the result, it will never change how I feel about you.”
I have to swallow several times before the lump in my throat clears. “I’d appreciate that, Dad.”
He nods. “What do you want to do about George?”
I’m taken aback that he’d ask me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is my amazing father all over. “What do you want to do, Dad? He’s your brother.”
His eyes grow fierce, revealing a side of him rarely seen. The side that’s made grown men crap their pants with one carefully crafted look. “He’s no brother of mine.”
“Nor uncle of mine.” Let alone fucking father. He’s a vile rapist.
A fresh bout of hate spills into my veins. I fist my hands, the urge to punch him and punch him until his skull caves in engulfing me. I’m drowning in the need to avenge my mother, Annabel, my father, and myself.
“I want the truth. All of it. But he dies. I want him gone.”
“Agreed.” Dad picks up the journal and his phone. “Let’s pay him a visit, shall we?”
George and Alice live in a large farmhouse on the far side of the estate. I often wondered why they didn’t live at Oakleigh, and now I know. Mum made it so. Although after she died, I’m surprised he didn’t change that. Stake his claim.
As Dad drives away from the house, a chilling thought crosses my mind, almost too abhorrent to consider. But within seconds, it’s taken root like a cancer.
“Dad, what if George was behind Annabel’s and my kidnapping?” Deep down, I always believed there was a mastermind behind what happened to my twin and me. What if that mastermind was an enemy from within, a man who had access and opportunity?
Dad hits the brakes. My seat belt snaps into place as the car stops. He twists to face me, aghast.
“Surely not?”
“Why not? A man who rapes his brother’s fiancée has shown what he’s capable of. What if, when he returned from Japan, he threatened Mum in some way, and when she refused to give in to his demands, he took us to punish her.”
Dad flinches. “Kidnap and murder of his own flesh and blood?” Another wince. “God, if he did…”
He presses his lips together and puts the car into gear. We drive the rest of the way in silence, both of us caught up in our own thoughts. George is dead regardless, but if he had a hand in the kidnapping that resulted in the death of my sister, I will drag out torturing him for days.
There’s a single light on downstairs when we arrive at the farmhouse. We exit the car and stride to the front door. Dad barges straight in without knocking.
“George?” he bellows, marching through the house.
“I’ll check upstairs.” I take the stairs two at a time, moving from room to room. Empty. I return back to the ground floor.
“Anything?” Dad asks.
“No sign.”
Delving into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and jabs at the screen. The sound of a ringtone is followed by George’s voicemail message and a beep. “George, it’s Charles. Ring me. It’s urgent.”
He sounds calm and in control. Not sure I’d have managed it under the circumstances. I’d probably have yelled, “You’re fucking dead, you bastard!”
We’re about to leave when a white envelope lying on the hearth of the living room fire catches my eye. I go and pick it up. It’s addressed to Dad, and it’s in George’s handwriting.
“Dad?” I show it to him.
He takes it from me and rips it open. Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper, torn from what looks like a spiral bound notebook. Written on it are two words:
I’m sorry.
“No!” I slam my fist into the wall. “How the fuck did he know?”
Dad screws up the note and tosses it into the fire. “I don’t know, son, but one thing I do know: he won’t get far.”
No. He won’t. I’ll make damn sure of it.