CHAPTER 11: Space

Adrian sat alone in his apartment with the outside world so distant and non-existing to him. 

The number just wouldn’t leave his head.

‘Ninety-nine point nine percent.’

It echoed like a verdict.

He had replayed the doctor’s voice over and over until it blended with another memory he hadn’t thought about in years. 

The clinic. The name had struck him immediately. 

He pulled open his laptop now and logged into a private portal he hadn’t accessed since everything else in his life had almost ended. That was three years ago. He had walked into that clinic. Young and terrified, facing a cancer scare that had thankfully turned out to be treatable. But before treatment, the doctors had recommended preserving his genetic material. Just in case.

And he had done it without thinking twice. He got his sperm samples stored. Paid the annual fees. Then forgot about them entirely once the cancer was gone and he'd rebuilt his life. He hadn’t told many people. Not the press. Not even Arabella. But his mother had known.

Claudia always knew.

“Just in case,” she’d said, with a voice calm. “Insurance isn’t fear, Adrian. It’s foresight.”

He scrolled further and there it was.

His name.

His signature.

Sperm cryopreservation.

The exact same clinic and the same timeframe. 

His chest tightened. 

He slammed the laptop shut and stood abruptly, pacing the room like an animal trapped in a cage.

He hadn’t chosen this.

I am not a father, he told himself, his jaw aching from tension. I only stored my sperm. This is a medical mistake.He hadn’t consented to fatherhood. He hadn’t stood beside Arabella in appointments. He hadn’t held her hair while she injected hormones. He hadn’t prayed with her, hoped with her, failed with her. He was never there. 

He had simply stored a sample.

That was all.

And yet…

Raina’s hand. Her eyes. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again, that tiny, hot hand of Raina’s gripping his finger. It hadn't felt like a biological coincidence. It felt like a claim. Like the child was claiming him. 

Fear flooded him. 

His phone lit up, Arabella's name glowed accusingly from three missed calls. He couldn't answer. Not yet. Not until he knew.

He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over her name. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Instead, he sent the only words he could manage.

“I need some space. This is a lot to process. I’m sorry.”

The possibility was just too insane. 

But the pieces fit too perfectly. The clinic, the timeline, the "accidental" mix-up that resulted in his DNA, his child, his sudden, unavoidable connection to Arabella Ashford and her inheritance. 

The text arrived just as Arabella was sitting down in a conference room with her lead attorney, Marcus, and the director of the Clinic.

She read the words, and for a second, the room tilted. I need space. The man who had promised to be there always was treating her now like a corporate liability. The seed Vanessa had planted that he was just a collector came to her mind. 

"Ms. Ashford?" Marcus asked, placing a hand on her arm. "The court order has been processed. The clinic has turned over the records for the week of your 2023 procedures."

Arabella forced herself to lock her phone. "Show me, please."

The door opened, and Adrian walked in. He looked like a man who had been through a war. His suit was sharp as always, but his eyes were hollow, avoiding hers entirely. He sat at the far end of the table, the physical distance between them feeling like a canyon.

"Let's get this over with," Adrian said, his voice sounding like a  shadow of its usual command.

The clinic director, a man sweating through his silk tie, opened a thick ledger. "We have conducted a full audit of the laboratory records from June 2023. At that time, two samples were stored in Cryo-Tank 4."

He slid the logs across the table.

"The first," the director pointed, "is the sample provided by Everett Quinn. The second..." He hesitated, glancing at Adrian with a mix of fear and reverence. "The second was a private deposit made by Mr. Adrian Whitmore. It was part of a long-term storage agreement."

Arabella’s heart hammered against her ribs. Three years ago. The exact same time she was being lied to by Everett.

"Now," he continued, pulling out another file. "This is where it gets complicated."

Katherine, Adrian's lawyer, leaned forward.

"According to these records," he said carefully, "genetic material stored at the clinic under the name Adrian Whitmore was used in your embryo fertilization."

The words landed like stones.

"Mr. Whitmore had samples stored there?" Arabella asked, her voice barely audible.

Katherine nodded. "Three years ago. He was facing a health scare and wanted to ensure future options."

"The logs show a documented technician error," the director continued, his voice trembling. "On the morning of your embryo creation, there was a recorded frost malfunction in the tank sensors. The labels became partially illegible. The lab technician on duty, a man named Elias Thorne, logged Mr. Whitmore’s sample as Mr. Quinn’s."

"A lab error?" Arabella’s voice was high, brittle. "You’re telling me my daughter’s entire existence is based on a... a barcode mistake?"

"It appears so," the director said. "The samples were mislabeled. Mr. Whitmore’s genetic material was used in the IVF procedure.”

The room went silent. Arabella looked at Adrian. He was staring at the records with a terrifying intensity.

"This was negligence," Marcus muttered, scribbling notes for a lawsuit. "A catastrophic failure of protocol."

"Negligence," Adrian repeated, his voice dangerously low. He finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Arabella’s. There was no warmth there, only suspicion. "Or something worse."

"What do you mean?" Arabella asked, her voice trembling.

"Elias Thorne," Adrian said, tapping the name of the technician on the page. "The man who made the 'mistake.' I had my team look for him this morning. He resigned a week after your procedure. He disappeared from the grid with a sudden influx of cash in an offshore account."

Arabella felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "You think he was paid? To switch the samples?"

"Mistakes happen in labs, Arabella," Adrian said, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the marble. "But 'mistakes' don't usually result in the perfect union of two of the largest estates in New York. Someone wanted this child to exist. Someone wanted a Whitmore heir tied to an Ashford legacy."

"But who?" Arabella’s mind raced through the faces of her enemies. Everett? Her father?

"That’s the question, isn't it?" Adrian’s gaze was hard, unreadable. He looked at her one last time, a look filled with a strange, mourning regret and then he turned to leave.

"Adrian, wait!" Arabella called out, her voice breaking.

He stopped at the door but didn't turn around. Then, the door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Arabella alone with the medical records of a life that felt more like a conspiracy than a miracle.

She looked at the technician's signature. Elias Thorne. Who had paid him? And why did she feel like the answer was a monster she hadn't even met yet?