Secrets, Blood, and Broken Trust.
Rain lashed against the penthouse windows like shards of glass, the storm mirroring the tempest between them. Alexander paced the length of the living room, his usually pristine dress shirt streaked with Reeves' blood-dark crimson blooms spreading across Egyptian cotton. Every few steps, he raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in disheveled spikes that made him look more like a cornered animal than the controlled CEO she knew.
Isabella sat frozen on the buttery leather couch, the manila envelope clutched to her chest like a shield. The recording played on loop from her phone, Alexander's distorted voice slashing through the tense silence:
Terminate the Claire situation. Permanently.
That's not my voice. Alexander suddenly wrenched open a hidden panel in the wall, revealing a biometric safe. His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed his thumb to the scanner the first crack in his armor she'd ever seen. The cadence is wrong. Listen to the pause before 'permanently' I don't speak like that.
I don't care about your fucking cadence! Isabella hurled the crystal tumbler at his head with all her strength. It shattered against the safe door, ice and glass raining onto the marble floor. Where. Is. Claire?
The safe beeped open. Inside lay two objects: a Glock 19 and a single hospital bracelet, the white plastic yellowed with age.
Isabella's hands shook as she lifted it, the words burning into her retinas:
Name: Claire Whittaker
DOB: 03/14/1992
Admit Date: 11/15/2024
Reason: Fetal distress, multiple contusions
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. Fetal.
Alaska Regional Hospital's records room smelled of antiseptic and lies. Isabella's stolen nurse's scrubs pilfered from a locker room while the night shift changed itched against her skin as she frantically scrolled through Claire's medical records. The glow of the computer screen cast eerie shadows across the shelves of files, each one holding someone's tragedy.
Patient: 22 weeks gestation.
Presenting symptoms: Decreased fetal movement, vaginal bleeding.
Diagnosis: Placental abruption secondary to blunt force trauma.
Notes: The patient alleges assault by an "unidentified male with a silver pinky ring." Security footage requested by Sterling International legal team.*
Isabella's stomach roiled. She clicked to the next page and froze.
Disposition: Emergency C-section. The male infant was transferred to the NICU. The mother was transferred to the ICU in critical condition.*
A shadow fell across the screen.
Looking for someone?
The security chief a mountain of a man with Alexander's family crest tattooed on his neck blocked the exit. In his meaty hand: a grainy ultrasound photo, the date stamp matching Claire's admission.
Mr. Sterling warned you not to dig.
Isabella's fingers closed around the letter opener in her pocket. Which Sterling? she whispered.
The man smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. The one who pays my salary.
As he stepped forward, the overhead lights flickered and then went out.
The abandoned cabin reeked of mildew and gun oil. Isabella's wrists burned from the zip ties, but she kept her voice steady. You're making a mistake.
Alexander knows exactly where you are. The security chief tossed a burner phone onto the rickety table between them. He's the one who gave the order.
The screen lit up with an incoming call. No number.
When she answered, labored breathing filled the line then a woman's voice, weak but unmistakable:
"He...took my baby."
A gunshot cracked through the receiver.
The line went dead just as the cabin door exploded inward.
The cabin door splintered open as a figure backlit by headlights stepped through the threshold. Isabella squinted against the sudden brightness, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Move and she dies," the security chief growled, drawing his weapon in one fluid motion.
The figure stepped forward, revealing a woman with copper hair pulled into a severe bun, her leather jacket gleaming with raindrops. In her hand: a Beretta aimed with the steady confidence of someone who knew how to use it.
"Funny," the woman said, her voice carrying a hint of Alaska's wilderness, "I was about to say the same thing."
Isabella's eyes locked on the woman's face familiar in a way that made her blood run cold. The same strong jawline, the same penetrating eyes she'd seen in Alexander's family photos. The resemblance was unmistakable. "Evelyn Sterling," Isabella whispered. Alexander's sister the one he claimed had died in a boating accident ten years ago.
Evelyn's smile was razor-sharp. "The grave is quite comfortable once you get used to it."
The security chief's gun wavered. "Ms. Sterling ordered me.
"My brother has always been generous with his orders, hasn't he, Marcus?" Evelyn cut in. "Just like he was generous with his promises to Claire."
Isabella's zip ties bit into her wrists as she strained forward. "Claire's alive?" The gunshot on the phone had it been a trick?
A shadow crossed Evelyn's face. "For now. Which is more than I can say for you if we don't move. Alexander's men are twenty minutes out." Her eyes flicked to the security chief. "And you've outlived your usefulness."
Marcus lunged for his phone on the table. The gunshot was deafening in the small cabin, his body crumpling with mechanical precision. Isabella flinched as warm droplets spattered her cheek.
"Family loyalty," Evelyn murmured, lowering her weapon. "Such a Sterling trait."
As Evelyn cut through Isabella's restraints with a hunting knife, questions tumbled from Isabella's lips. "Why are you helping me? Where's Claire? The baby?
"He's safe," Evelyn said, her voice softening for the first time. "And he has Alexander's eyes."
The helicopter sliced through darkness, Anchorage's lights fading behind them as they headed deeper into the Alaskan wilderness. Rain hammered against the windshield, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge.
"Alexander's father built bunkers across Alaska during the Cold War," Evelyn explained over the roar of the rotors. "Paranoia runs in the family. Claire's in one of them the one Alexander doesn't know about."
Isabella clutched the medical file Evelyn had handed her, pictures spilling onto her lap surveillance photos of Claire entering Sterling International's satellite office in Anchorage, timestamped emails between Alexander and his father about "the Alaska situation," and most damning: genetic test results confirming paternity of Claire's child.
"Why didn't she come forward?" Isabella asked. "A Sterling heir it would have given her leverage."
Evelyn's laugh was bitter. "My father would have destroyed her. The Sterling legacy is built on buried secrets." She tapped a photo of an elderly man Isabella recognized as Edward Sterling—Alexander's father. "When Claire threatened to go public, Father arranged her 'accident.' The pregnancy was... unexpected."
The helicopter suddenly dipped, thrown sideways by a violent gust. Warning lights flashed across the control panel.
"We've got company," the pilot shouted, pointing to radar blips closing in.
Isabella's phone vibrated with a text. Alexander's name glowed on the screen:
If you want answers, follow the breadcrumbs. Not all Sterlings are monsters.
Attached is a video file. Isabella's fingers trembled as she pressed play, showing security footage of Alexander arguing violently with his father, the timestamp matching Claire's hospital admission date.
"Your brother sent this," Isabella said, showing Evelyn the screen. "But why would he "Because he's playing both sides," Evelyn snapped. "Always has."
The helicopter lurched again. Through the rain-streaked window, Isabella spotted a second aircraft gaining on them, its sleek black body cutting through the storm with predatory grace.
"Sterling Industries' private security," Evelyn muttered. "Hold on."
Their pilot executed a sharp banking turn, diving below the treeline. The pursuing helicopter matched their maneuver with terrifying precision.
"They're herding us," the pilot called out, his voice tight with strain.
Isabella clutched her seat as they skimmed treetops, the forest floor rushing up to meet them. "Where are they pushing us toward?"
Evelyn's expression darkened. "The only place Alexander knows I'd go."
The tiny cabin came into view, nestled against a rocky outcropping. A lone figure stood on the porch, illuminated by the helicopter's searchlight a woman with auburn hair whipping around her face.
Claire.
"It's a trap," Isabella realized with dawning horror.
As their helicopter descended into the clearing, Isabella's phone lit up with another message. Not from Alexander this time. The number was blocked, but the message was clear:
The baby's name is Thomas. If you survive tonight, find him. Sterling blood always finds its way home.*
Evelyn grabbed Isabella's arm, her fingers digging into the flesh. "Whatever happens in there, remember in the Sterling family, the truth is never what it seems." She pressed something cold and metallic into Isabella's palm a USB drive. "This contains everything the real will, the offshore accounts, the paternity test. If I don't make it, make sure Thomas gets what's rightfully his."
The helicopter touched down with a bone-jarring thud. Through the windshield, Isabella could see Claire clearly now, her face gaunt but alive her eyes locked not on their helicopter, but on the approaching black aircraft and behind Claire, barely visible in the cabin's shadows: a man holding what looked like a detonator.
Isabella lunged for the door. "Claire! Behind you!"
Too late. The world erupted in a blinding flash as the cabin exploded, the shockwave slamming their helicopter onto its side. Isabella's head cracked against the window, blood trickling down her temple as darkness crowded the edges of her vision.
The last thing she saw before consciousness slipped away was Alexander Sterling stepping from the wreckage, his silver pinky ring catching the firelight as he reached down to lift Claire's motionless body from the ground.
"Find Thomas," Evelyn whispered beside her, blood bubbling from her lips. "He's the only one who can bring it all down."