Chapter 5 - The Yellowing Envelope
Adrian hung up the phone and tossed the ring box onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a soft, hollow thud.
Mara didn't move from her spot near the hallway archway. Her coat was off, revealing the cheap fabric of her restaurant uniform. She looked fragile, but her stance was rigid, built on six years of survival.
"They need proper beds," Mara said softly, her voice flat. "Tomorrow we leave."
"You aren't going anywhere," Adrian replied, his voice calm, heavy, and non-negotiable. He walked toward the bar, poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler, but didn't drink. "Six years, Mara. Four sons. And you didn't send a word."
"I didn't send a word?" Mara echoed, a bitter, disbelieving laugh escaping her chest. "I called you a hundred times. I stood outside your family’s estate in Long Island until your security pointed weapons at me. I wrote to you."
"I never received a single call. My security never reported you."
"Liar," she whispered.
A small noise broke the tension.
Milo stirred on the sofa. He sat up rubbing his eyes, his cream jacket wrinkled. He looked around the vast, dimly lit penthouse, his eyes landing on his mother's worn duffel bag resting near the entryway.
Quietly, without saying a word, the six-year-old slid off the sofa, walked over to the bag, and unzipped the front pocket. He pulled out a thick, yellowed envelope that had clearly been carried around for years, its edges frayed and bent.
Milo walked across the dark hardwood floor, his small socked feet silent, and stopped in front of Adrian.
He held out the paper.
"Mommy keeps this in her bag," Milo said simply. "It has your name on it."
Adrian looked down at the boy, then took the envelope.
Written across the front in neat, familiar black cursive was his full legal name: Adrian Vance Blackwood. But stamped aggressively across the center in red ink from six years ago were the words: RETURN TO SENDER - REJECTED BY ADDRESSEE.
Mara’s breath hitched loudly. She stepped forward, her face turning paper-white. "Milo, no—"
Adrian ignored her. He turned the envelope over, his thick fingers opening the unsealed flap just enough to pull out the contents inside.
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It was a single page of medical stationery from a clinic in Brooklyn, dated six years ago. Attached to the top corner was a black-and-white printout.
An ultrasound image showing four microscopic heartbeats.
