Chapter 2 - The Impossible Math of Time
The silence in Stellan Cross’s office was so heavy that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a gavel falling.
Selene sat frozen on the edge of the leather armchair, clutching Fern tightly to her chest. Her daughter had drifted back to sleep, her tiny, even breaths fluttering against Selene’s collarbone. But Selene felt as though she couldn't draw a full breath. Her lungs felt contracted, trapped in the terrifying collision of two worlds she had kept strictly separated: her quiet, struggling life as a desperate mother, and the dark, untouchable empire of Chicago’s most feared syndicate boss.
Stellan stood motionless by his mahogany desk, the old, black-and-white photograph still clutched in his large, scarred hand. The knuckles of his right hand—bruised and faintly stained with dried blood from whatever violent business he had been attending to before Fern's cries interrupted him—were stark against the faded paper.
“Say it again,” Stellan commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a low, metallic register that vibrated through the room.
Selene swallowed hard, her throat burning. “Evan Hart. That was his name.”
Stellan lowered his gaze back to the photograph. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently along his cheekbone, right beside the jagged white scar that cut across his skin.
“My brother’s name was Evan Cross,” Stellan said, every word measured and cold. “He didn't use the name Hart. He didn't live in a third-floor walk-up in Pilsen. And according to every public record, every coroner’s report, and every headstone in our family crypt, Evan Cross died three years ago in a warehouse fire down by the Calumet River.”
Selene’s heart hammered frantically against her ribs. “No. That’s impossible. I met Evan four years ago at a diner in Rogers Park. We lived together for nearly two years. He worked as an independent logistics dispatcher. He... he died in a car accident fourteen months ago, just two months before Fern was born.”
Stellan raised his head. His pale gray eyes burned with a mixture of disbelief, suspicion, and a sudden, sharp grief that he tried instantly to mask beneath his cold facade.
“A car accident?” Stellan scoffed quietly, a humorless, bitter sound. “Evan didn't drive cars after our father died. He had a severe phobia following the crash that killed our mother. If he was driving, someone put him behind that wheel.”
“He drove an old blue sedan,” Selene protested, her voice rising despite her fear. “He had a scar on his left shoulder from a childhood accident involving a rusted gate. He had a habit of tapping his index finger three times whenever he was stressed. He loved black coffee with three sugars and used to read poetry when he thought I wasn't looking.”
Stellan stared at her. The details she recited weren't public knowledge. They were intimate, domestic truths that only someone who had shared a bed and a life with a man could possibly know.
“If the man you knew as Evan Hart was my brother,” Stellan murmured, walking slowly around the desk until he stood just inches from Selene, “then why did he abandon our family name, fake his own death three years ago, and live a double life under an alias?”
Before Selene could answer, the door swung open without a knock.
Mrs. Thornbury rushed in, looking breathless and panicked. “Mr. Cross, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Dr. Sterling is on line one from the private clinic. He has the expedited genetic panel you requested.”
Stellan broke eye contact with Selene, though his presence remained towering and oppressive. He snatched up his desk phone and pressed the speaker button.
“Sterling,” Stellan said tersely.
“Stellan,” the doctor’s voice echoed through the spacious office, tight with professional anxiety. “I received the DNA samples for the infant and the comparison markers from your family archive. I ran the analysis twice because the results were... frankly, baffling.”
Selene stopped breathing.
“Give it to me straight,” Stellan ordered.
“The infant’s genetic markers do not match the DNA profile on file for Evan Cross,” Dr. Sterling reported clearly. “There is zero biological relationship between the child and your late brother.”
A cold stillness filled the room. Selene felt a dizzying wave of relief wash over her, instantly followed by a sickening confusion. If Evan wasn't Fern’s father... then who was?
“Check it again,” Stellan demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “Check it against every Cross family genome in the database.”
“I did, Stellan,” Dr. Sterling replied gently. “The child shares no lineage with Evan. But... she does share an exact, undeniable paternal match with the primary donor profile registered under the cross-matching system for—”
The doctor hesitated.
May you like
“For whom, Sterling?!” Stellan shouted, slamming his hand against the mahogany desk with a force that made Selene flinch and caused Fern to stir in her sleep.
“For you, Stellan,” the doctor whispered through the speaker. “The child is yours.”
