The chemotherapy was brutal. Jules spent the night vomiting into a basin, his small body heaving with the effort. Kiley held him, wiping his face with a cool cloth, murmuring soothing words she didn't believe.
By dawn, he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Kiley sank into the chair beside his bed, every bone in her body aching. She felt like she had run a marathon.
The door opened quietly. Camila slipped in, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of bagels. She looked at Kiley, her eyes filled with pity.
"You look like hell," Camila said softly, handing her the coffee.
"I feel like it," Kiley mumbled, taking a sip. The hot liquid burned her throat, but it made her feel alive.
"Go wash your face," Camila ordered, pointing to the bathroom. "I'll sit with him."
Kiley did as she was told. The cold water on her skin was a shock. She stared at her reflection. The dark circles under her eyes. The pallor of her skin. She looked like a ghost of herself.
When she came back out, Camila was sitting on the small balcony off the room. The morning sun was just starting to peek over the Manhattan skyline.
Kiley stepped outside, the cool air filling her lungs. "He threw up all night."
"The drugs are rough," Camila said. "But they're working. They have to."
Kiley nodded, sipping her coffee. "I blocked them all. Aden. My parents. Everyone."
"Good," Camila said fiercely. "You don't need that toxicity."
Camila pulled out her phone, scrolling through her feed. "Look at this. It popped up on my news alert. '9/11 Twenty Years Later: Remembering Caleb Whitfield.'"
She turned the screen toward Kiley. "A real hero. Not like the zero you were married to."
Kiley glanced at the screen, expecting to just skim it and look away. But her eyes caught on the photo.
The world stopped.
The coffee cup slipped from her fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a thud, the liquid splashing her slippers. She didn't feel it.
She grabbed the phone out of Camila's hands, her fingers digging into the case.
The photo was of a young man in a firefighter's uniform. His face was smudged with soot, his helmet tucked under his arm. He was looking right at the camera, a slight, tired smile on his face.
It was Jules's face.
The cheekbones. The jawline. The way his hair curled over his forehead. It was like looking at a grown-up version of her son.
"Kiley?" Camila asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
Kiley couldn't speak. Her throat was closed. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears. She used her thumb to zoom in on the photo.
The eyes. The exact shade of blue. The slight tilt of the brow.
"That's impossible," Kiley whispered.
"What is?" Camila leaned over, looking at the screen. Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. He looks just like Jules."
Kiley's mind was racing. The IVF. The anonymous donor. The clinic had told her the donor was a healthy, intelligent young man. That was all.
"Camila," Kiley said, her voice shaking. "It's more than just looking like him. It's... everything. It's in the bones. What if... what if it wasn't just a random donor?"
Camila stared at her. "What are you saying? Kiley, that's crazy. That man, Caleb Whitfield, he died on 9/11. That was years before Jules was conceived."
"They freeze sperm," Kiley insisted, the pieces clicking into place in her head, terrifying and exhilarating. "For soldiers, for men with cancer... or for heroes who might not come home. What if he donated? What if Jules is his son?"
"Hold on," Camila said, holding up a hand, trying to be the voice of reason. "A resemblance is one thing, but this is a huge leap. There are a million-to-one lookalikes in the world."
"No," Kiley said, her voice gaining a desperate certainty. "This is different. I feel it. I need to know." She took the phone back, reading the article. "Caleb Whitfield. He was a firefighter. He came from a wealthy family. His brother is Albin Whitfield."
Albin. The name hit Kiley like a freight train. The man in the hallway. The man with the cold eyes and the pine scent.
"The man I bumped into," Kiley said slowly. "The one Jules found. His name is Albin Whitfield."
"The brother," Camila breathed. "Kiley, if there's even a chance you're right, this changes everything."
Kiley stood up, pacing the small balcony. "If he's the uncle, then the Whitfield family... they have money. They have power. They could pay for Jules's treatment. They could help me fight Aden."
"Or," Camila said, her voice cautious, "they could take him away."
Kiley stopped pacing. The fear returned, cold and sharp. "What?"
"If they find out Jules is Caleb's biological son," Camila said, standing up, "they could sue for custody. They have unlimited resources, Kiley. You have nothing. They could bury you in court just as easily as Aden could."
Kiley looked through the glass door at Jules, who was still sleeping peacefully. She couldn't lose him. Not to Aden, and not to some stranger.
"But if I don't do anything," Kiley said, her voice breaking, "Jules might die. I can't afford the treatment, Camila. I can't afford the lawyer. I have nothing."
Camila walked over, putting her hands on Kiley's shoulders. "We need to be smart. We can't just march up to Albin Whitfield and announce it. We need proof. We need a plan."
Kiley took a deep breath, steadying herself. Camila was right. This was a bomb. If she dropped it wrong, it would blow up in her face.
"I need to find out for sure," Kiley said. "I need to know if Caleb was the donor."
"How?" Camila asked.
Kiley looked at the phone, at the face that mirrored her son's. "I'll start at the clinic. And if that fails... I'll find a way to talk to Albin Whitfield."
She walked back into the room. She stood over Jules's bed, watching his chest rise and fall. She had made a promise to protect him. And if that meant confronting a billionaire lawyer who looked at her like she was dirt, then so be it.
She was done running.
