The geneticist's report arrived on a Thursday.
Cassius opened it in his hotel room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Read it twice.
*Based on photographic analysis and known genetic markers, probability of paternity: statistically impossible given documented timeline of subject's relocation and subsequent pregnancy.*
He set it down. Picked up his phone. Called the family attorney.
"File for DNA testing anyway," he said.
"Mr. Harrison, the timeline—"
"I don't care about the timeline. File it."
Silence on the line. Then: "Yes, sir."
The paperwork went through on Friday.
Mikayla's attorney responded Monday morning.
The packet arrived by courier. Cassius signed for it. Opened it at the desk.
Gracie's birth certificate. Hospital records. Pregnancy documentation. Conception dated four months after Mikayla left New York.
And beneath it all: a restraining order application.
He stared at the pages. Read them again. Again.
The math was absolute. Undeniable.
She wasn't his.
Had never been his.
He sat there until the room went dark. Didn't turn on the lights. Didn't move.
When he finally stood, his legs shook.
It didn't matter.
The thought came clear and cold.
It didn't matter whose daughter she was. What mattered was Mikayla. What they'd had. What they could still have.
He just needed her to remember.
---
The tabloid story broke on a Tuesday.
*Seattle Designer's Secret Past: The Woman Who Destroyed a New York Engagement*
Petra saw it first. Showed me her phone at lunch.
I read it standing up. My sandwich untouched.
The article painted me as the other woman. Said I'd pursued Cassius while he was engaged to Chaya. That I'd been obsessed. Unstable. That the relationship ended when he chose his fiancée over his stalker.
Every single word was backwards.
Petra watched my face. "Mikayla—"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. Two clients just emailed. They want to 'pause' their contracts."
I set the phone down. "Forward everything to the attorney. We'll file defamation."
"That takes months."
"Then it takes months."
I went back to work.
That afternoon, another parent mentioned it at Gracie's school pickup. Casual. Smiling. "I saw that article. Must be so frustrating when people get the story wrong."
I smiled back. "Yes. Very frustrating."
Drove home. Told Sullivan.
He was at his desk. He looked up. Listened.
Then he said, "I'll take care of it."
"Sullivan—"
"I'll take care of it."
Two days later, the stories vanished. Every publication. Every website. Gone.
I didn't ask how.
He didn't explain.
But I saw the letterhead on his desk when I brought him coffee. A law firm I didn't recognize. Representing clients I'd never heard of.
I set the coffee down. Walked away.
That night, I moved the living room furniture again.
---
Petra found the photographs on a Wednesday.
She came into my office. Closed the door. Set her laptop on my desk.
"Someone's been watching the studio."
I looked at the screen. Dozens of images. Exterior shots. Timestamped. Evening hours. The nights I worked late.
My car in the lot. Lights on in my office window. Me leaving at nine. At ten. At midnight.
"How long?" I asked.
"Three weeks. Maybe more."
I picked up my phone. Called Sullivan.
He answered on the first ring.
"Someone's been photographing the studio," I said. "Petra has the files."
"Send them to me."
"Sullivan—"
"Send them. Now."
Petra forwarded everything. We sat in silence.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
"The photographer's been identified," Sullivan said. "Hired contractor. Cassius paid him. He's been served. He won't come back."
"Okay."
"I'm upgrading security at the studio. You'll see them tomorrow."
"Sullivan, I don't need—"
"Yes. You do."
He hung up.
The next morning, there were two men in the parking lot. Professional. Quiet. They nodded when I arrived.
Petra saw them. Looked at me.
"How bad is this going to get?" she asked.
I met her eyes. "I don't know. But it won't touch Gracie."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
We went inside.
---
In New York, Cassius sat in the Brooklyn apartment.
The one he'd rebuilt. The one he'd kept waiting.
He'd tried everything. Legal channels. Social pressure. Public opinion. Gifts. Letters. Apologies.
Nothing worked.
She wouldn't see him. Wouldn't listen. Wouldn't remember.
But she would.
He just needed time with her. Real time. Away from the professor. Away from the life she was pretending was enough.
He opened his laptop. Searched for the café near her studio. The one outside the restraining order's specific boundaries.
Booked a flight to Seattle.
Called the caretaker. "Prepare the apartment. I'm bringing someone home."
Then he made another call. A contact from college. Someone who owed him.
"I need something," Cassius said. "Something that works fast. Clean. No trace."
Silence. Then: "How fast?"
"Thirty minutes. Maybe less."
"I'll send you what I have."
Cassius hung up. Stared at the apartment. The furniture in its exact places. The photographs on the walls.
This wasn't a crime.
This was a correction.
She'd been lost for seven years. Wandering. Confused.
He was bringing her home.
That's all.
Just bringing her home.
