Chapter 4

I dropped the phone.

It bounced off my cheap rug and slid under the fridge. Neither of us moved to get it. We just stood there — two strangers, three heartbeats, and a dead man who wasn't dead.

"How long have you known?" I whispered.

Alexander didn't answer immediately. He walked to my window, pushed aside the thin curtain, and stared at the rain-slicked street below.

"I found out three weeks ago," he said. "When I ran your background check. Your father's death certificate is a forgery. A good one. But not good enough."

I sat down. Hard. The chair creaked under me.

"He left me," I said. The words came out flat, hollow. "When I was eighteen. He drove away from our house and never came back. They found his car at the bottom of a ravine. Burned. No body. They told me he was dead."

"They lied."

"My mother lied." My voice cracked. "My mother told me he was dead. She held me while I cried. She planned the funeral. She wore black for a year."

Alexander turned from the window. His face was unreadable again — the mask back in place.

"Your mother is working with him."

The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense.

"No."

"The apartment you're living in. The job you have. The anonymous donor who paid for your architecture degree." He paused. "It was all him. All of it. He's been funding your life from a distance. And your mother has been reporting back."

I thought about the phone calls. The way my mother always asked where I was, who I was seeing, whether I'd met anyone interesting. The way she'd pushed me toward the masquerade that night.

"You need to get out, Isa. You need to meet someone new."

She hadn't been helping me move on.

She'd been baiting a trap.

"Why?" My voice was barely audible. "Why would they do this?"

Alexander walked toward me. Slowly. Carefully. Like I was a wounded animal he didn't want to spook.

"Because your father lost everything in the war with my family. His company. His reputation. His legacy. But he has one thing left." He stopped in front of me. "You."

"I'm not a thing."

"You're his daughter. And now you're carrying my children." His blue eyes held mine. "Do you understand what that means? Your father isn't watching you because he misses you. He's watching you because you're his way back into power."

The room tilted.

I gripped the edge of the table.

"He wants to use the babies," I said. "He wants to use me to hurt your family."

"He wants to destroy me. And he'll go through you to do it."

---

We were quiet for a long time.

The rain softened. The radiator stopped hissing. Somewhere outside, a car alarm blared and then fell silent.

"I don't know him anymore," I finally said. "The father I loved died six years ago. Whoever that man is in Switzerland — he's a stranger."

"And yet he knows everything about you."

I looked up at Alexander. He was still standing too close, still watching me with those cold, calculating eyes. But there was something else there now. Something almost gentle.

"Your counter-offer," he said quietly. "I accept it."

I blinked. "What?"

"I'll stay here. In this... apartment. No penthouse. No private chefs. No chauffeurs." His lip curled slightly, like the words tasted bad. "I'll live your life. I'll eat your sad pasta. I'll even talk to your plants if it makes you happy."

"It won't come to that."

"Don't be so sure." He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. For the first time, he looked almost human — rain-damp hair, tired eyes, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. "But you have to hold up your end of the bargain."

"No lies. No secrets." I nodded. "I know."

"Then start now." He leaned forward, elbows on my chipped kitchen table. "Tell me about the night your father died. The real night. Not the story your mother told you."

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in six years, I told the truth.

---

"He came to my room at midnight," I said. "He was crying. I'd never seen him cry before. He told me he was sorry. He told me he'd made mistakes. He told me he loved me more than anything in the world."

I opened my eyes.

Alexander was listening. Really listening.

"Then he walked out the front door," I continued. "I watched him get into his car. I watched him drive away. And I never saw him again."

"You didn't report him missing?"

"My mother did. The next morning." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "She said he'd been depressed. She said he'd probably driven off the road on purpose. She made me believe it was my fault."

"Why would she do that?"

I looked at Alexander.

Really looked at him.

And suddenly, for the first time, I saw the connection I'd been missing.

"Because she was protecting someone," I said slowly. "Not him. Not herself. Someone else."

Alexander's face went pale.

"Your father didn't try to destroy mine," I whispered. "The opposite. My father tried to protect yours. And someone made him disappear for it."

The room was silent.

Then Alexander's phone — still under the fridge — buzzed.

Then mine buzzed.

Then both of them buzzed again.

We stared at each other.

"I think," Alexander said slowly, "we're about to find out who."