LOGINOne week later, Alex sat in her home office surrounded by names.Six names printed on heavy paper. Six children. Six families who had no idea they were part of a private war.Emma Chen — BeijingLiam O’Connor — DublinSofia Rossi — RomeBenjamin Adler — BerlinYuki Tanaka — OsakaAria Patel — LondonMarcus had found them through layers of public records, research registries, social media fragments, and databases he never fully explained.Two of the eight Dr. Cray mentioned were ghosts. No traceable footprint. Either fabricated—or deliberately buried.Dominic stood in the doorway, watching Alex highlight Emma Chen’s name.“You’re sure about this?”“If someone had warned me before the cameras,” Alex said quietly, “before the patent filings—yes. I’m sure.”“Cray will retaliate.”“Let her.” Alex looked up. “At least they’ll have a choice.”She opened an encrypted email service and began typing.Subject: Warning: Your child is being tracked---Emma Chen was first.Marcus confirmed Emma wa
Three days later, Catherine was chasing the cat again.“Up!” she demanded, pointing at the couch.Her fever was gone. Energy restored. Heart steady. The crisis had passed as quickly as it had come.To her, nothing had happened.To Alex, everything had shifted.She sat at the kitchen table, Dominic across from her. Marcus filled one square of the laptop screen. Patricia another.“I’m meeting her,” Alex said.Dominic’s jaw tightened. “That’s exactly what she wants.”“I know. But I need to hear the offer directly. I need to understand what we’re actually refusing.”Patricia adjusted her glasses. “Any agreement would require extensive review. Months, likely.”“They’ll record everything,” Marcus added. “Every word becomes leverage.”“Let them,” Alex replied. “I want to see her face when I say no.”Dominic didn’t argue again.Alex picked up the card from the flowers—Dr. Helena Cray’s number printed in understated black.She typed.I’ll meet. Neutral location. My terms.The reply came in und
At 3:02 a.m., Catherine started crying.Not the brief, restless whimper she sometimes made when she lost her pacifier. This was sharp. Continuous. Wrong.Alex was out of bed before she was fully awake.The nursery light stayed dim. Catherine stood in her crib, cheeks flushed, hair damp against her forehead.“Mama,” she sobbed.Alex lifted her and felt the heat immediately.Too warm.She reached for the digital thermometer on the dresser. Underarm first—too imprecise. She switched to rectal. 101.8°F.High, but not catastrophic.Her hand moved automatically to Catherine’s chest. Counting.One, two, three—Pulse: fast. She checked her watch.Approximately 110 beats per minute.Elevated, but proportional to fever. Breathing slightly quicker than baseline. Nose congested. Soft cough.Classic viral infection.Common.Normal.But in Alex’s mind, a different phrase surfaced.Stress event.Catherine whimpered and pressed her face into Alex’s neck.“Mama.”“I’ve got you,” Alex whispered.She ca
Catherine was fourteen months old.She didn’t toddle anymore. She walked with intention.Unsteady only when distracted. Determined when focused.The apartment had shifted again to match her growth. The foam activity mats were gone. In their place stood a small wooden table scarred by spoon impacts and bite marks. Board books lived in low stacks. Cabinet locks remained. Cameras remained.Catherine crossed the living room clutching a picture book upside down.“Book,” she announced.“Yes,” Alex said.Catherine dropped it at her feet and lifted her arms.“Up.”Alex lifted her without hesitation. No dizziness. No fluttering pulse. Her heart rate sat steady at seventy-eight.Catherine’s vocabulary hovered around ten words now. Mama. Dada. No. More. Up. Down. Cat. Ball. Book. Bye.She pointed toward Dominic’s laptop.“Dada.”He looked over and smiled. “Always.”Fourteen months old. Fourteen pounds, nine ounces. Recent echo: structurally normal. No arrhythmic events recorded.Healthy.Thrivin
November arrived quietly.Catherine was six and a half months old.The apartment no longer resembled the sleek executive space it had once been. Corners were padded. Cabinets latched. An activity mat covered the living room floor. A high chair stood at the kitchen island.Catherine sat propped between pillows, gripping a soft fabric block in both hands. Fourteen pounds, three ounces. Dark hair thickening along the crown of her head. Blue-gray eyes studying the world with deliberate curiosity.She laughed when the block slipped from her fingers.Alex watched from the couch.She could stand now. Walk without bracing herself against walls. Lift Catherine without the room tilting.Dr. Park’s final cardiac assessment lay on the coffee table.Ejection fraction: 52%.Recovered from 45% post-delivery.Below optimal. Stable.Restrictions: lifted.She had been medically cleared three weeks ago.The custody agreement voided the same week—six months post-delivery survival threshold met. Patricia
Two weeks after delivery, Alexandra Wolfe could stand for nine minutes before her vision blurred.At ten, Dominic made her sit.The C-section incision was healing cleanly. The steri-strips were gone. The scar remained angry and tight. Her heart, however, was slower to forgive.Dr. James Park conducted the follow-up in their bedroom, stethoscope cold against her chest.“Your ejection fraction dropped during delivery,” he said. “Forty-five percent. Normal is fifty-five to seventy. You’re stable. But weakened.”“How long?” Alex asked.“Six to eight weeks minimum before we reassess. No exertion. No stress.”They both understood the impossibility of the last instruction.Catherine slept in the bassinet beside the bed. Two weeks old. Five pounds, eleven ounces. Feeding every three hours. Strong latch. Strong cry.Alex still slept in ninety-minute fragments.But this time she woke because her daughter needed her.Not because she feared someone would kill her.Dominic barely left the room. He







