The rain had stopped by midnight, leaving the Manhattan skyline glistening like spilled diamonds against the dark Atlantic sky. Clara walked out of the elevators into her boutique hotel suite, only to find the room bathed in the amber glow of the terrace fireplace.

Sitting on the leather lounge chair, swirling a tumbler of single-malt Scotch, was Julian Vance.

“You have ten seconds to leave before I call hotel security, Julian,” Clara said coldly, tossing her keycard onto the console table.

Julian set the glass down and stood up. His towering frame cast a long shadow across the room. “Lily Vance,” he said softly, each syllable deliberate as a heartbeat. “Born on November 14th in London. Blood type O-negative. The exact same rare cardiac anomaly that runs through my father’s family.”

Clara’s hand froze over her purse. Her throat went dry.

“You told me you aborted our child before you left for Europe,” Julian’s voice cracked with a fury that barely concealed five years of agonizing grief. “You let me believe I killed my own family with my neglect, Clara. Why?”