Chapter 2 - The Boy with Steel-Gray Eyes
The memory of that final kitchen fight burned behind my eyelids like a fresh wound.
Richard had spent weeks sliding manila envelopes across my mahogany desk at Caldwell Therapeutics.
He showed me blurred photographs of Rowan sharing a quiet dinner with Dr. David Matthews, her department head.
He whispered about private text messages, ambiguous phone logs, and the classic trap of an ambitious physician seeking Caldwell money.
"How do I know the child is even mine, Rowan?" I had asked that terrible night.
Her warm, joyful smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.
"We were painting sample patches for the nursery two weeks ago," she had said, her voice shaking violently.
"You chose those colors alone," I had lied, terrified of defying my father's decree.
She had slipped her platinum engagement ring off her finger, placed it on the counter, and walked out into the rain.
Now, standing in the maternity ward of St. Mary's, the phantom scent of that rainy night returned with suffocating force.
"Only immediate family is permitted in the recovery wing," Evelyn said, breaking my trance.
"I am family," I choked out, the word tasting like bitter ash on my tongue.
Chief of Staff Margaret Foster, who had known my mother for thirty years, appeared around the corner.
She took one look at my pale face and gestured toward the secure security doors.
"Room 218, Sebastian," Dr. Foster said quietly.
"You have five minutes before I call hospital security myself."
The walk down that quiet hallway felt longer than my entire thirty-eight years on this earth.
The numbers slipped past: 214, 216, and finally 218.
The wooden door was slightly ajar, revealing a sunlit room overlooking the hospital courtyard.
I pushed the door open, my hands shaking so violently that the brass handle rattled.
Rowan sat propped up against a stack of white pillows beneath the window.
Her honey-blonde hair fell in soft, exhausted waves over her shoulders.
Her skin was pale, her hazel eyes shadowed with fatigue, but she possessed an ethereal, unyielding grace.
In her arms rested a tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blue hospital blanket.
She did not jump or gasp when the door clicked shut behind me.
She simply looked up, her gaze steady, sharp, and devastatingly calm.
"Hello, Sebastian," she said, her voice carrying the quiet weight of an executioner.
"You’re eight months late."
I leaned against the doorframe because my legs refused to support my weight.
"Rowan," I managed to say, every breath feeling like shattered glass in my lungs.
"I heard your voice in the hall."
"You heard me giving instructions on a preeclampsia transfer," she corrected softly.
"Habit, I suppose."
"Even in labor, I couldn't stop listening to the monitors."
She shifted the blue blanket slightly, revealing the baby's tiny, flushed face.
The infant stirred, stretching his minuscule hands toward the warm sunlight streaming through the blinds.
Then his eyelids fluttered open, revealing irises the exact shade of polished slate.
They were Caldwell eyes.
They were my eyes, staring back at me from a face of unblemished innocence.
A sharp groan escaped my chest as I sank into the vinyl armchair beside her bed.
"Oh, God," I whispered, burying my face in trembling hands.
May you like
"Yes," Rowan said, her voice entirely devoid of pity.
"He is yours."
