Chapter 3 - The Son Who Might Not Be His
The first DNA result did not belong to the baby.
It belonged to a coffee cup.
Preston told me about it six days after our divorce.
By then, military security had already started investigating the photograph sent from outside the staging facility.
The image appeared to have been captured before my departure.
That meant whoever sent it had known my route.
Or had followed us.
Neither possibility was acceptable.
The unknown number disappeared within hours.
Prepaid device.
No reliable registration.
No useful location.
But the investigators found something else.
The same number had contacted Preston.
And Brielle.
That changed everything.
When Preston called during his scheduled window, Sophie refused to come to the phone.
Madeline took the tablet into another room.
I stayed nearby but out of view.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice sounded strangely cautious.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“School okay?”
“We haven’t started school yet.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“Right.”
Madeline stared at the screen.
“When were you going to call us?”
“I’m calling now.”
“No. Before we left.”
Preston’s face tightened.
“I was dealing with something.”
“The baby?”
I saw his eyes shift.
“Who told you about that?”
“Nobody had to.”
Madeline looked directly at him.
“You forgot Sophie’s goodbye card.”
He swallowed.
“What?”
“She left it on your desk.”
I knew nothing about this.
Madeline continued.
“She wanted you to have it before we left.”
“Madeline…”
“You never came.”
Then she ended the call.
That night, I found Sophie’s draft card hidden beneath her pillow.
Not the one she had left for Preston.
Another.
This one had only three sentences.
Dear Dad,
I hope your new baby likes you.
I did too.
I sat beside her bed long after she fell asleep.
The following morning, Preston called me.
“Madeline hates me.”
“She’s hurt.”
“She talked to me like I’m some stranger.”
“She’s nine, Preston.”
“I know how old she is.”
“Do you?”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Then he said, “Brielle agreed to prenatal testing.”
I leaned against my desk.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And Grant?”
“He gave a sample.”
That surprised me.
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Preston laughed bitterly.
“Because apparently I’m not the only man who wants to know.”
The results would take several days.
Meanwhile, the Hale family had begun unraveling.
Eleanor blamed Brielle.
Wallace blamed Grant.
Grant blamed Brielle.
Brielle blamed the doctor.
Preston blamed everyone except himself.
Until Wallace made one terrible mistake.
He said what he really thought.
According to Preston, they were standing in Wallace’s office when his father poured two drinks and said, “Even if the boy isn’t biologically yours, there are ways to manage appearances.”
Preston stared at him.
“What?”
“People know Brielle is carrying your child.”
“If he’s Grant’s child, he’s not mine.”
Wallace frowned.
“Think strategically.”
“Strategically?”
“You need a son.”
Those words sounded familiar.
Preston looked at his father.
“I have two children.”
Wallace waved dismissively.
“You know what I mean.”
And perhaps for the first time in Preston’s life, he heard exactly what Madeline and Sophie had been hearing for years.
You do not count.
Not fully.
Not the way a boy would.
Preston set down his glass.
“Don’t ever say that about my daughters again.”
Wallace laughed.
“Now you care?”
That question apparently hit its target.
Because Preston left.
Three days later, the prenatal results arrived.
He called me immediately.
I was in a conference room reviewing transportation projections when my secure assistant told me there was a family emergency call.
I stepped outside.
Preston didn’t say hello.
“The baby isn’t mine.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The Hale heir.
Gone in six words.
“Are you certain?”
“Ninety-nine point nine percent excluded.”
“And Grant?”
Silence.
“Grant is also excluded.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“He’s not the father either.”
That was not what anyone expected.
“Then who is?”
“Brielle won’t tell me.”
Preston’s voice sounded hollow.
“She keeps saying the lab made a mistake.”
“Did they repeat it?”
“They’re doing a confirmation.”
I stared out the window.
“But you’re excluded?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughed once.
A broken sound.
“You’re sorry?”
“For the situation. Yes.”
“I left my family for her.”
There it was.
Not quite an apology.
But closer.
“I treated my daughters like…”
He stopped.
“Say it,” I said.
Silence.
Then, quietly:
“Like they were replaceable.”
I didn’t rescue him from the sentence.
He needed to hear it.
“I thought I was getting this perfect new life.”
His voice cracked.
“And now I don’t even know who that woman is.”
“You knew who your daughters were.”
He said nothing.
“You just decided they weren’t enough.”
“I know.”
“No. You’re beginning to know.”
Another silence.
Then he whispered, “Can I talk to them?”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
“Sophie has a fever.”
He immediately sounded alarmed.
“How bad?”
“Low-grade. She’s fine.”
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call tomorrow?”
“At your scheduled time.”
“Lena…”
“What?”
“I miss them.”
My answer came before sympathy could interfere.
“They missed you first.”
I ended the call.
That should have been the end of the day’s surprises.
It wasn’t.
At 8:32 that evening, my security officer knocked on the door of my temporary quarters.
“Ma’am.”
His expression told me immediately this was not routine.
“What happened?”
“We identified the man connected to the surveillance photo.”
My heart accelerated.
“Who?”
He handed me a folder.
The photograph inside showed a man in his mid-fifties.
Close-cropped gray hair.
Former military.
Civilian contractor.
I recognized the name printed beneath the photograph.
And suddenly the situation had nothing to do with divorce.
Nothing to do with Brielle.
Nothing to do with Preston.
Because I had seen that man before.
Six years earlier.
During an investigation I had helped lead.
An investigation that cost several people their careers.
One of those people had promised that someday I would regret it.
The officer lowered his voice.
“There’s more.”
I looked up.
“He’s currently employed by Hale Strategic Development.”
My stomach dropped.
Wallace Hale’s company.
My former father-in-law had a man following me.
Or someone using his company did.
May you like
And now my daughters were involved.
---
