Part 3: The Unknown Protector
I recoiled until my back hit the airplane wall. My breathing had grown faster and shallower. The man in the dark suit looked streamlined and dangerous. His eyes betrayed no emotion, but his posture gave away that he was trained to completely control situations.
"Who are you?" I whispered, desperately trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Do you work with Mark?"
The man slowly shook his head. He sat down in the empty seat next to me and gestured for me to sit down as well. "My name is Frank. And no, I certainly do not work with your ex-husband. In fact, it is my job to ensure that Mark never gets anywhere near the inheritance that is rightfully yours."
"Inheritance?" I repeated, confused. "What are you talking about? My ex-husband is in my mother's house! He has my son! My thirteen-year-old child that I was never allowed to hold!"
"Hush," Frank said calmly, though his gaze remained fixed on the cabin door. "Mark has indeed dragged your son into his game, but he won't hurt him right now. Because Luuk is his only bargaining chip. Mark knows that without Luuk, he stands no chance against the people coming after him."
My head was spinning. None of this made sense. For thirteen years, I had lived in a simple, seemingly clear-cut world of betrayal and heartache. I thought I was a cheated wife licking her wounds in solitude. But now it turned out I was the center of a web of lies far larger than my crashed marriage.
"In my sister's letter..." I began, gripping the paper letter tighter in my hand. "My sister wrote that Mark is not Luuk's father. If he's not the father... who is? Why did the voice on the phone say Mark tried to prevent me from knowing he existed?"
Frank looked deep into my eyes. "You don't remember the accident thirteen years ago, do you? The car crash right before you ended up in the hospital?"
I frowned. "Car accident? There was no accident. I left after I caught them. I had a nervous breakdown, or so I was told. I spent a few weeks recovering in a private clinic..."
"That's the lie Mark and your family fed you," Frank interrupted ruthlessly. "You never left voluntarily, Emma. You were run over thirteen years ago on the night you left the house. You fell into a coma. In that hospital, doctors discovered you were pregnant. About seven months along."
My stomach turned. The world seemed to tilt. A coma? A car accident?
"Mark discovered that the child you were carrying couldn't be his," Frank continued. "Because medically speaking, Mark was sterile. He had known that for years, but he never told you. When you turned out to be pregnant, he panicked. Not because of the infidelity, but because of the man you had spent that single night with, nine months prior in Paris."
Paris. As soon as Frank mentioned that city, a hazy memory flashed through my mind. A rainy evening. A hotel near the Seine. A man with dark hair and a scar on his left hand. A man whose name I had never been able to remember because I thought it was just a fleeting dream during a business trip.
"Who was he?" I whispered.
"His name was Julian Vance," said Frank. "A man who possessed an immense financial empire. Julian died thirteen years ago, in the exact same week you were in the clinic. He left his entire fortune to his sole biological heir. But Julian didn't want his family to find out he had fathered a child with a married Dutch woman. So he had a will drawn up that explicitly named you and the child."
I stared at Frank, out of breath. "And Mark...?"
"Mark found out about the will," Frank said ice-coldly. "If you were to wake up from your coma and discover that your son was the sole heir to billions, Mark would be left empty-handed. So he made a deal with your sister. They faked your nervous breakdown, made you believe you had never been pregnant, and hid the child with your mother. Your sister went along with it because Mark blackmailed her with a secret that would ruin her own life."
"My sister..." Tears burned behind my eyes. "My sister didn't hide the child to protect me... she hid him to help Mark?"
"Initially, yes," Frank nodded. "But as Luuk grew older, your sister grew remorseful. She knew Mark would eliminate the child as soon as the term of the will expired. That happens in exactly forty-four hours, on Luuk's thirteenth birthday. If Luuk hasn't been officially identified by you before then, the entire fortune reverts to the Vance family—the people currently paying Mark to ensure you never claim your son."
My thoughts raced. The savings booklet my sister left me, the mysterious letter, the strange man's phone call... everything fell into place like shards, but the puzzle was terrifying.
"So who called me right before you came to me?" I asked. "The man who said someone was on their way?"
Frank looked concerned. "That wasn't someone from my team. And it wasn't Mark either."
"Then who?"
"Someone from the Vance family," Frank said softly. "And if they get to your mother before Mark does, Emma, this isn't about money anymore. This is about erasing bloodlines."
At that moment, the pilot's voice sounded through the speakers: Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent toward the airport.
Frank stood up and looked out the window. "We're landing in twenty minutes. A car is waiting on the runway. But you need to know: the moment you step into that car, you are no longer just a mother looking for her child. You are the target of one of the most dangerous families in Europe."
As the plane dipped through the thick cloud cover, I saw the city lights glowing below. But among thousands of lights, I saw only the image of a thirteen-year-old boy sitting somewhere in the dark waiting.
Then my phone vibrated again. A photo had come in via an encrypted message.
I opened the photo. My breath caught in my throat.
It was an image of my mother's living room. The chairs were overturned, the cabinets ripped open. And on the wall behind the couch, a single sentence was written in red paint:
HE IS ALREADY GONE.
At the bottom of the photo was a text message from the unknown number:
If you want to see him back, Emma, don't look for your ex-husband. Look for the man who thought he killed you thirteen years ago.
