Chapter 3 - the night of the fire
Grace dropped her gaze, fresh tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She squeezed Amara closer, taking a slow, shuddering breath.
"Because three years ago," Grace whispered, her voice cracking with raw emotion, "I was working as a junior pediatric nurse at Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital."
Julian took two steps forward, stopping inches from Grace. "Saint Jude’s? That was the hospital where the fire occurred."
"It wasn't just a fire, Mr. Hale," Grace said, looking up into his intense eyes. "Three years ago, on the night your daughter was born, the hospital was placed on security lockdown. I was working the night shift in the neonatal unit. Around midnight, an explosion rocked the lower levels, and smoke filled the corridors."
Julian's hand tightened on the picture frame. "The authorities told me my daughter perished in the nursery blaze before firefighters could reach the wing."
"They lied to you," Grace said firmly, her brown eyes clear and resolute through her tears. "When the fire broke out, I ran into the nursery to evacuate the infants. I saw a man dressed in dark tactical gear trying to carry a newborn out through the rear fire exit. He had a gun. I panicked... I grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp from the hallway and struck him from behind."
Vance, standing by the doorway, gasped quietly, looking at Grace with sudden, profound respect.
"The man dropped the baby and fell," Grace continued, her voice trembling at the memory. "I grabbed the newborn—wrapped in that white blanket with the silver crescent pendant—and ran out into the storm. By the time I reached the street, the wing of the hospital collapsed in flames. The next morning, news reports everywhere said Julian Hale’s daughter had died in the fire, and that the Hale family was involved in a brutal syndicate war."
Grace looked at little Amara in her arms, smoothing down her curly brown hair. "I was terrified, Mr. Hale. I was just a twenty-eight-year-old nurse with no money and no power. I thought if I brought the baby back to a Mafia boss during an active war, whoever tried to steal her would just finish the job. So I took her, fled the state, changed my name, and raised her as my own daughter."
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Julian stared at Grace, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He looked down at three-year-old Amara, noticing for the first time the shape of her brows, the delicate line of her jaw, and the deep brown eyes that mirrored his own mother's.
"Vance," Julian choked out, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. "Call Dr. Evans. Have him bring a mobile DNA testing unit to the estate immediately."
