Gabriel stared at Noah’s hand around my waist.

Then Lucas called him Dad again.

Something in Gabriel’s expression cracked.

—How old is the boy?

Noah’s eyes hardened.

—That’s none of your business.

—I’m asking Elena.

I sighed.

—Seven.

Gabriel went completely still.

Celia grabbed his arm.

—Gabriel, don’t overthink it. Elena already said he’s her husband’s son.

But Gabriel was doing the math.

Seven years.

The divorce.

The staircase.

The pregnancy everyone believed I had lost.

His gaze dropped to Lucas.

—When is his birthday?

I stepped between them.

—We’re done here.

Gabriel suddenly reached into his coat and pulled out his phone.

—Get Dr. Harris on the line.

My blood ran cold.

I knew that name.

Dr. Harris had been the military physician who treated me after the fall.

The man who told Gabriel I had lost the baby.

Celia’s face changed too.

Only for a second.

But Noah saw it.

So did I.

—Why are you calling him? Celia asked quickly.

Gabriel didn’t answer.

A soldier handed him another phone.

—Commander, Dr. Harris retired four years ago.

—Find him.

Celia tightened her grip on Gabriel.

—This is ridiculous. Elena remarried. Why humiliate everyone over some adopted child?

Lucas frowned.

—I’m not adopted.

Celia froze.

Lucas pointed proudly at Noah.

—Dad says I was tiny when I was born. He could hold me with one hand.

Gabriel slowly looked at me.

—Tiny?

I said nothing.

Noah picked Lucas up.

—Inside.

This time, Gabriel’s soldiers moved aside.

But before I could follow, Gabriel spoke.

—Elena.

I stopped.

His voice had lost all arrogance.

—Did our child survive?

Seven years ago, I had dreamed of hearing him ask that question.

Now it only made me tired.

I turned around.

—You lost the right to ask when you made me promise not to report Celia before you’d take me to a hospital.

His face went white.

—I took you afterward.

—No. You ordered a driver to take me.

His lips parted.

I continued:

—You stayed with her.

For once, Gabriel had no defense.

I entered the workshop.

That evening, Noah found me sitting beside Lucas’s bed.

—He’s going to find out.

—I know.

Noah sat beside me.

Gabriel had resources ordinary people couldn’t imagine.

If he truly investigated Lucas’s birth, the truth wouldn’t remain hidden.

—Are you afraid he’ll take Lucas?

I looked at my sleeping son.

—I’m afraid he’ll decide blood gives him rights that love never earned.

Noah took my hand.

—Then he’ll have to get through both of us.

The next morning, three black military vehicles stopped outside.

Gabriel stepped out alone.

No Celia.

No soldiers approaching the house.

He held a yellowed hospital file.

His face looked as though he hadn’t slept.

—Harris is dead.

I frowned.

—Then why are you here?

He handed me the file.

—Because before he died, he left records.

I didn’t take them.

Gabriel opened the folder himself.

—Your admission record says fetal loss.

—That’s what I was told.

—But there is no fetal death certificate.

My heart skipped.

Noah stepped closer.

Gabriel continued:

—There is also no surgical record confirming the loss.

He pulled out another sheet.

—Instead, eleven hours after you arrived, an emergency neonatal transfer was authorized.

I stared at him.

—What?

Noah’s expression changed.

I turned toward him.

—Noah?

He looked shaken.

—I found you at the rural clinic two days later. I never knew what happened before that.

Gabriel showed me the transfer form.

One premature male infant.

Approximately twenty-eight weeks.

Critical condition.

Transferred under restricted identity.

My knees weakened.

Lucas.

But one detail didn’t make sense.

—I was told the baby was gone before I woke up.

Gabriel nodded slowly.

—Someone wanted you to believe that.

His eyes moved toward the signature at the bottom.

Then his jaw tightened.

I took the paper.

The authorization hadn’t been signed by Gabriel.

It had been signed by Celia Monroe.

I looked up.

—How could she authorize anything?

—She couldn’t.

Gabriel’s voice turned frighteningly quiet.

—Unless someone inside the military hospital gave her access.

My phone rang.

Noah answered because my hands were shaking.

A woman’s voice came through.

—Mrs. Carter?

—Yes.

—This is St. Matthew’s Medical Center. Someone requested access to Lucas Carter’s neonatal records this morning.

My blood froze.

—Who?

The woman hesitated.

—A Celia Monroe.

Gabriel turned toward the door.

—Where is Lucas?

My heart stopped.

I ran to his room.

Empty.

His jacket was gone.

So was his backpack.

On the desk was a note written in his crooked handwriting:

Mom, Aunt Celia said Dad Gabriel wants to show me something. Don’t worry.

For one second, nobody breathed.

Then Gabriel’s phone rang.

Celia.

He answered on speaker.

Her voice was no longer sweet.

—Now we can finally stop pretending, Gabriel.

His face became deadly.

—Where is the boy?

Celia laughed softly.

—Before you come looking for him, ask Elena one question.

I grabbed the phone.

—What do you want?

Silence.

Then:

—Ask her why Lucas’s original birth record lists two newborns.

Everything inside me stopped.

—What?

Noah stared at me.

Gabriel went pale.

Celia continued:

—You all spent seven years protecting one child without realizing another disappeared that same night.

The call ended.

I looked at the hospital transfer record again.

Gabriel ripped another folded page from the back of the file.

Two identification numbers were printed there.

Twin A.

Twin B.

His hands began to shake.

And beside the second number was a single word stamped in red:

TRANSFERRED.