Buried at Birth, Raised by His Mistress

My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped the red circle. The voice memo timer started ticking.

"The hospital staff is paid off," Margaret's muffled voice bled through the wood. "But if she keeps digging, she will find the discrepancies. That stunt in SoHo was sloppy. You cannot afford to be sloppy."

"She won't dig," Adrian said, his tone entirely too calm. "She trusts me completely. I’ve handled her grief for four years."

"You better be right. If that boy’s true parentage gets out—"

A floorboard creaked under my weight.

The voices instantly stopped. Heavy footsteps marched toward the door.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and walked forward, forcing my pace to remain steady. The heavy oak swung open.

"Evie?" Adrian stood in the threshold. His eyes darted down the empty hallway, searching the shadows. "What are you doing out here?"

"I need water." I kept my voice flat, meeting his gaze. "Did I interrupt your call?"

"Just wrapping up." He reached out, his fingers grazing my arm.

I suppressed a shudder. For the first time in five years, the man I shared a bed with terrified me.

***

The next morning, Adrian left for the office. I sat at my laptop, staring at the bright screen. Mr. Miller had emailed the encrypted hospital files from four years ago.

I dialed the investigator’s number.

"Look at page twelve, Mr. Miller. The delivery summary."

"I see it," he answered through the speaker. "Male infant. Time of death recorded as 11:42 PM."

"Where is the death certificate?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Where is the body release form? I never signed one."

Keys clacked on his end. "There isn't one, Mrs. Blackwood. The file is incomplete."

"Could they have transferred him? Moved him to another facility?"

"Without your authorization? Impossible. Legally, the hospital couldn't dispose of remains without a parent's signature. The file just ends. It’s a ghost document."

"So where did my son go?"

"I'll track down the medical staff on duty that night. Give me until this evening."

***

Adrian walked into my dressing room that night, holding an open velvet box.

"The Foundation's children's gala is tonight," he announced, fastening a diamond bracelet around my wrist. "We need to make an appearance. Especially after that misunderstanding on Prince Street. Good press."

"Of course." I stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror.

"Smile for the cameras tonight, Evie," he said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "We need to show a united front."

"A united front against what?"

"Rumors. Wall Street hates instability."

Two hours later, flashbulbs blinded us as we entered the Plaza Hotel ballroom. Waiters carried silver trays of champagne through the crowd. Adrian guided me by the waist, playing the perfect, doting husband.

"Adrian!"

The high-pitched voice sliced through the string quartet's music.

I turned. Noah sprinted across the Persian rug, wearing a miniature tuxedo.

"Daddy!"

Adrian froze. A dozen wealthy donors turned to watch. He couldn't kick the child away this time. Not with the cameras flashing.

Noah launched himself upward. Adrian caught him. His large hands slid perfectly under the boy's arms, hoisting him onto his hip. He adjusted his weight instantly.

My chest tightened. He held that boy like he had done it a thousand times.

Vanessa glided into the circle of guests. She wore a stunning emerald gown, her hair pinned up in an elegant twist.

"I am so sorry, Adrian," she said, offering a dazzling smile to the surrounding crowd. "He just missed you."

A society matron raised an eyebrow. "He calls Mr. Blackwood 'Daddy'?"

Vanessa laughed, a light, airy sound. "Oh, Adrian is his sponsor through the foundation. Noah has been attached to him since birth." She paused, her gaze flicking to me for a fraction of a second. "Some bonds are stronger than blood."

The donors chuckled, finding the display charming.

Noah wiggled out of Adrian's arms. A small wooden toy car tumbled from the boy's pocket and bounced near my velvet heels.

I crouched down. My fingers brushed the smooth wood.

"Here you go, Noah." I offered the toy forward.

Smack.

Noah slapped my hand away. The car clattered across the marble floor.

"I don't like you!" The four-year-old glared at me, his face turning red. "Daddy loves Mommy and me, not you. You're trying to take him away!"

The surrounding chatter died. Complete silence blanketed our corner of the ballroom.

I looked up at Adrian, waiting for him to correct the child. To defend his wife.

Instead, Adrian stepped between us. He placed a protective hand on Noah’s shoulder, physically shielding the boy from me.

"Evie, stop," Adrian murmured, his tone laced with warning. "Don't stoop to a child's level. Leave him alone."

I stared at my husband's hand resting on Noah's shoulder. I shifted my gaze to Vanessa, who stood safely behind Adrian's broad back, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

A memory struck me with the force of a physical blow.

Four years ago. The week before my emergency surgery. I had visited Margaret's private obstetrician, Dr. Evans.

The clinic door had opened. A woman had walked out, her hands resting on a massive, late-stage pregnant belly.

I hadn't recognized her then. But the sharp cheekbones. The almond eyes.

It was Vanessa.

She had been exactly as pregnant as I was. Using my mother-in-law's doctor.

***

The rest of the gala passed in a blur. I barely spoke on the ride home.

At 1:00 AM, Adrian finally fell asleep. I locked myself in the master bathroom and turned the shower on to muffle the sound.

My phone vibrated on the marble counter. Mr. Miller’s name flashed on the screen.

I answered immediately. "Did you find her?"

"I did," the investigator said. "Nurse Clara Higgins. She retired three years ago. I have her on the line right now."

A shaky breath echoed through the receiver.

"Ms. Higgins?" I asked. "I'm Evelyn Blackwood. I need to know what happened in that delivery room."

"I signed a non-disclosure agreement, Mrs. Blackwood. They paid me a lot of money to leave the state."

"I don't care about the money. I will double it. I just need the truth."

Silence stretched over the line. Ten seconds. Twenty.

"They told me he died," I pressed, my knuckles turning white against the phone casing. "Adrian said he didn't make it."

More silence. Then, a sharp intake of air.

"Mrs. Blackwood," the elderly woman finally spoke, her voice trembling. "Your baby cried very loudly when he was born."

The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering against the tile floor as the final puzzle piece snapped into a horrifying picture.