Emelie sat at her vanity, applying lipstick. The shade was 'Blood Red.'
She looked at herself in the mirror. The crying jag in the alley had left her eyes puffy, but a layer of concealer hid that. She looked armored.
Her phone chimed. An encrypted email from Harper.
Subject: The Gala Photos.
Emelie opened the attachment. It was a series of high-resolution paparazzi shots from the Met Gala.
Harper had zoomed in on one specific image.
It showed Clifton's hand resting on Eleanora's waist. The fabric of her dress was sheer at the sides.
Under Clifton's hand, barely visible on the inner bicep where the skin folded, was a tattoo. Harper had enhanced the contrast to make it readable.
E.H.
But below it, in tiny script, was a date. 10.12.2016.
Emelie stared at the date. That was the day Emelie's mother had died.
A chill crawled up her spine. Why would Eleanora have the date of Emelie's mother's death tattooed on her body? And hidden in a place only a lover-or a doctor-would see?
"Emelie?"
Clifton stood in the doorway. He had come home to change files.
He paused, taking in her appearance. The perfect hair, the red lips, the designer dress. She didn't look like the broken woman he'd seen at the clinic this morning.
"You look... better," he said, loosening his tie.
"I'm practicing," Emelie said, turning to face him. "Practicing smiling. So I don't scare Lily next time."
Clifton looked uncomfortable. "Look, about this morning... Lily is just confused. She'll come around."
"I know," Emelie said. "I'm going out tonight."
"Out?" Clifton frowned. Emelie never went out at night. She was a homebody. "Where?"
"A spa," she lied effortlessly. "Harper recommended a late-night place in Tribeca. Essential oils, massages. To help me relax."
Clifton visibly relaxed. "Good. That's good. You need to decompress."
He believed her because he wanted to believe she was fixing herself for him.
Thirty minutes later, Emelie walked into a dimly lit internet café in Chinatown. It smelled of ramen and stale cigarette smoke.
She paid cash for a private booth in the back.
She logged into the ETH Zurich remote terminal using a VPN.
She checked the RT303 data quickly-Phase 2 was initiating smoothly.
Then, she opened a new tab. She navigated to the legacy database of her father's estate.
Dr. Garvin Glover had been a giant in immunology. When he died, his biological assets-samples, cell lines, frozen tissues-were placed in a trust.
Emelie navigated to the Inventory page.
She scrolled down to Item 8940.
Sample Source: Martha Glover (Deceased).
Type: Hematopoietic Stem Cells / Bone Marrow aspirate.
Status: ACTIVE USE.
Emelie stopped breathing.
Her mother's samples were supposed to be frozen in cryo-stasis. Preserved for future research into the rare autoimmune disease that killed her.
Active Use.
She clicked on the details.
Authorized by: The Wilder Biotech Trust.
Project Code: PROJECT SWAN.
Swan. Eleanora.
Emelie's hands shook as she tried to access the project details.
ACCESS DENIED. CLEARANCE LEVEL 5 REQUIRED.
She slammed her fist on the desk.
Clifton. Clifton was the trustee of her father's estate. He had control over the samples.
He was using her dead mother's bone marrow. For what?
Harper called.
"I couldn't hack the hospital records," Harper said quickly. "But I found a billing trail. Eleanora visits the New York Center for Blood Disorders every Tuesday. And Clifton's personal foundation pays the bills."
"Blood disorders," Emelie whispered. "Harper... my mother died of a rare blood cancer. Her marrow was unique. It had a specific genetic mutation that made it resistant to..."
"Resistant to what?"
"To certain types of rejection," Emelie said, her mind racing. "If Eleanora has a similar condition... my mother's cells might be the only thing keeping her alive."
"Oh my god," Harper breathed. "He's harvesting your mother to save his mistress."
Emelie hung up. She felt sick. Physically ill.
She wiped the browser history, logged out, and left the café.
When she got home, the house was quiet. Clifton was in his study. The door was ajar.
Emelie took off her heels and crept down the hallway in her stocking feet.
She stood just outside the sliver of light coming from the study.
"...stability is declining," Clifton was saying into the phone. His voice was tense. "I don't care about the ethics, Dillon. Just keep the samples viable. If we lose the Glover line, we lose her."
Emelie pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Dillon. Dillon Hunt. The brilliant young bio-ethicist who worked for Wilder Biotech. He was involved?
"I know," Clifton said. "We're moving to the German facility next week. The regulations are looser there. Prep the transport."
Clifton hung up.
Emelie heard his chair scrape against the floor. He was coming out.
She quickly stepped back, pretending to be examining a painting in the hallway.
Clifton emerged. He stopped when he saw her.
"Emelie," he said, surprised. "You're back late."
"The massage was long," Emelie said. She turned to him, her face a mask of serene innocence. "I heard you talking. Is everything okay with the company? You sounded stressed."
Clifton studied her face. He was looking for cracks. He found none.
"Just a new product launch," he said smoothly. "Biotech stuff. Boring."
"Ah," Emelie nodded. "Well, don't work too hard. You need your rest too."
"I will," Clifton said. "Goodnight, Emelie."
He walked past her toward the stairs.
Emelie watched his back.
Project Swan. Germany.
He was going to take the samples out of the country.
"Goodnight, darling," she whispered to the empty hall.
