Chapter 46
title: "Blood Claim" wordCount: 2794
The letter was still in my hand when Reese knocked at six AM, and the first thing out of her mouth was, "Mom wouldn't lie about something like that."
I hadn't called her. Hadn't texted. But somehow she knew—the way she always knew when something was wrong, like we were still kids sharing a bedroom and she could hear me crying through the wall.
"Come in." I stepped back, the paper crinkling in my grip.
She looked like hell. Hair in a messy bun, yesterday's mascara smudged under her eyes, wearing scrubs that meant she'd come straight from her shift at the hospital. Her gaze went to the letter, then to my face, then back to the letter.
"Sloane."
"Yeah, no, I know." I held it out to her. "Read it yourself."
She took it like it might burn her. Started reading. I watched her face—watched the exact moment she got to the part about James Chen. Her mouth opened. Closed. Her fingers tightened on the paper.
"This is—" She looked up. "This is insane."
"That tracks."
"Mom wouldn't—" But she was reading again, faster now, her eyes moving frantically across the words. When she finished, she just stood there, holding the letter in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
I waited.
"James Chen was your father," she said finally. Flat. Emotionless.
"Apparently."
"Not Dad. Not—" She shook her head. "How long have you known?"
"About twelve hours."
She sank onto the couch, still holding the letter. I'd spent half the night on that same couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to process the fact that my entire life was a lie. The man I'd called Dad—the man who'd walked out when I was eight—wasn't even my father. And the man who was my father had been murdered by the family I'd been investigating.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
"There's more," I said.
Reese's head snapped up. "More?"
I grabbed the journal from the coffee table. Mom's handwriting covered every page—neat, precise, the way she used to write grocery lists and birthday cards. Except these weren't grocery lists. These were dated entries spanning twenty-six years, documenting every article about the Ashfords, every patent filing, every business acquisition.
Every piece of evidence that they'd stolen everything from James Chen.
From us.
"She kept a journal," I said. "About James. About the Ashfords. About—" My throat closed up. I shoved the journal at Reese instead.
She opened it. Started reading. I watched her face cycle through shock, disbelief, anger. When she got to the entries from right before Mom got sick, her hands started shaking.
"She was going to come forward," Reese whispered. "Look—here. She wrote about contacting a lawyer. About filing a claim."
I moved closer, looked over her shoulder. Mom's handwriting, dated three years ago: Met with attorney today. He says we have a case. Patent application lists me as co-inventor. James's daughter would have legal standing to challenge the Ashford claim. But what would it cost? What would it do to the girls?
"She was going to do it," Reese said again. "She was going to fight them."
"And then she got sick."
The words hung between us. Mom had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer three months after that entry. Dead six months later. She'd spent her last days in a hospice bed, holding our hands, telling us she loved us.
She'd never mentioned James Chen. Never mentioned the Ashfords. Never told me that I was the daughter of a man who'd been destroyed by one of the most powerful families in Boston.
"Why didn't she tell us?" Reese's voice cracked. "Why didn't she—"
"She was protecting us."
"From what? From the truth?" Reese stood up, pacing now, the journal clutched to her chest. "We had a right to know. You had a right to know who your father was."
"Yeah, no, I get that." I rubbed my face. My eyes felt like sandpaper. "But think about it. What would we have done? We were broke. Mom was dying. The Ashfords have lawyers and money and—"
"So she just gave up?"
"She survived." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. "She built a life. She raised us. She—"
"She lied to us for twenty-six years."
I didn't have an answer for that.
Reese kept pacing, kept flipping through the journal. Then she stopped. Went completely still.
"Sloane."
Something in her voice made my stomach drop. "What?"
"Look at this." She held out the journal, pointing to an entry near the back. "This is from right after James died. Mom wrote—" She swallowed. "She wrote that James had filed the original patent application. With her name on it. As co-inventor."
I took the journal. Read the entry. Then read it again.
James filed the application today. He insisted on listing me as co-inventor, even though I told him it wasn't necessary. 'You did half the work,' he said. 'You deserve half the credit.' He was always like that. Always fair. Always kind. The application number is US-2847-9923-A. I have a copy in the safe deposit box. Just in case.
"Holy shit," I breathed.
"If your name is on the patent—"
"Then I have legal standing." My mind was racing. "Not just as James's daughter. As a co-inventor's daughter. That's—"
"That's a legitimate claim to the Ashford fortune."
We stared at each other. The implications were staggering. This wasn't just about revenge or justice anymore. This was about money. Real money. The kind of money that could change everything.
The kind of money that could get me killed.
I made Reese leave at seven. She didn't want to go—wanted to stay, to keep reading the journal, to make plans—but I needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do with this information.
I made coffee. Burned my tongue on the first sip. Stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the street below.
That's when I saw the car.
Black sedan. Tinted windows. Parked across the street in a spot that had been empty when I'd gotten home last night. I wouldn't have thought anything of it—Boston was full of black sedans—except I'd seen that exact car before.
Outside the Ashford mansion. The night I'd broken into Marcus's office.
My coffee cup hit the counter. Hot liquid splashed across my hand but I barely felt it. I moved closer to the window, trying to see through the tinted glass. Couldn't make out anything. But the car had been there for hours. Had to have been. Which meant—
Marcus knew.
He knew I'd found something. Knew I'd been digging into my mother's past. Maybe he even knew about the letter, about the journal, about James Chen being my father.
Maybe he'd known all along.
I backed away from the window. My heart was hammering against my ribs. Think. I needed to think. If Marcus was watching me, if he knew what I'd found, then—
Then I was in danger. Real danger. The kind of danger that ended with people disappearing or dying in convenient accidents.
I grabbed my phone. Started to dial 911. Stopped. What was I going to tell them? That a car was parked on a public street? That I thought maybe the billionaire I'd been investigating was having me followed?
They'd laugh me out of the precinct.
I needed help. Needed someone who understood what the Ashfords were capable of. Someone who—
Dominic.
I pulled up his number. Hesitated. We hadn't spoken since the gala, since I'd walked away from him in that hallway. Since he'd looked at me like I was the only person in the room and I'd felt something crack open inside my chest.
Since I'd realized I was falling for him and hated myself for it.
But he'd told me to call if I needed anything. And right now, I needed someone who could stand up to Marcus Ashford.
I hit dial.
He answered on the second ring. "Sloane."
Just my name. But the way he said it—like he'd been waiting for my call, like he'd been hoping I'd reach out—made something twist in my stomach.
"Hey." My voice came out rough. "Sorry to call so early, but—"
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine. I just—" I moved back to the window. The car was still there. "I think Marcus is having me watched."
Silence. Then: "What makes you think that?"
"There's a car outside my apartment. Black sedan, tinted windows. I've seen it before. Outside your father's house."
More silence. Longer this time. When Dominic spoke again, his voice was careful. Controlled. "How long has it been there?"
"I don't know. Hours, maybe. I just noticed it."
"Stay inside. Lock your doors. I am coming over."
"Dominic, you don't have to—"
"Sloane." He cut me off. "If my father is watching you, then you are not safe. I will be there in twenty minutes."
He sounded—what? Worried? Angry? I couldn't tell. But there was something in his voice that made my chest tight.
"Okay," I said. "But there's something else. Something I found. In my mom's papers."
"What did you find?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. How was I supposed to tell him? How was I supposed to say that James Chen—the man his father had destroyed, the man whose death had started all of this—was my biological father? That I was the daughter of the man the Ashfords had murdered?
That I had a legal claim to everything his family had built?
"Sloane?" His voice was softer now. "What did you find?"
"I can't—" My throat closed up. "I can't tell you over the phone."
"Then I will be there soon. Do not leave your apartment. Do not open the door for anyone except me."
"Dominic—"
But he'd already hung up.
I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to dead air. Outside, the black sedan sat motionless. Watching. Waiting.
I thought about the journal. About Mom's entries. About James Chen filing that patent application with her name on it, making sure she got credit, making sure she'd be protected.
He'd loved her. Really loved her. Enough to put her name on the most important work of his life.
And the Ashfords had killed him for it.
Dominic showed up in fifteen minutes, not twenty. I watched from the window as his car pulled up behind the black sedan. Watched as he got out, walked over to the sedan, knocked on the driver's window.
The window rolled down. I couldn't see who was inside, but I saw Dominic's face. Saw the way his face hardened. Saw him lean down, say something I couldn't hear.
Then he straightened. Walked toward my building. The sedan's engine started. It pulled away from the curb, disappeared around the corner.
I buzzed him up.
When I opened the door, he looked—God, he looked wrecked. Hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it. Tie loose. Eyes shadowed with something that might have been fear.
"You are all right," he said. Not a question. A statement. Like he needed to confirm it.
"I'm fine." I stepped back, let him in. "What did you say to them?"
"I told them to leave." He moved past me into the apartment, his gaze sweeping the space like he was checking for threats. "They will not come back."
"Just like that?"
"They work for my father. I am still an Ashford." He turned to face me. "For now."
Something in his voice made me pause. "What does that mean?"
"It means my father and I are no longer on speaking terms. It means I have made it clear that I will not be part of whatever he is planning. It means—" He stopped. Took a breath. "It means I am choosing a side. And it is not his."
The words hung between us. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that he meant it. But I'd spent too many years learning that people said one thing and did another. That promises were just words until they were backed up by action.
"Why?" I asked.
"Why what?"
"Why are you choosing my side? You don't even know what I found. Don't know what—"
"I do not care what you found." He moved closer. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. "I care that my father is threatening you. I care that you are in danger because of my family. I care—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I care about you."
Oh.
Oh no.
I couldn't do this. Couldn't let myself feel what I was feeling. Not when I was about to tell him that his father had murdered mine. Not when everything between us was built on lies and secrets and—
"Sloane." His hand came up, fingers brushing my cheek. "Whatever you found, whatever you need to tell me, it does not change—"
"Your father killed mine."
The words came out flat. Emotionless. Like I was reading from a script.
Dominic went still. His hand dropped. "What?"
"James Chen." My voice was shaking now. "The man your father destroyed. The man whose patent your family stole. He was my biological father."
Silence. Complete, suffocating silence.
Dominic stared at me. I watched his face cycle through shock, disbelief, horror. Watched him process what I'd just said. What it meant.
"That is not—" He shook his head. "That is not possible."
"My mom kept a journal. Letters. Documentation. James Chen was my father. Which means—"
"Which means you have a legal claim to the Ashford fortune." His voice was hollow. "You are James Chen's heir."
"Yeah."
He turned away. Walked to the window. Stood there with his back to me, shoulders rigid.
I waited. Gave him time to process. To figure out what this meant for us. For whatever this thing between us was.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
"I am sorry."
"For what?"
"For what my father did. For what my family took from you. For—" He turned back to face me. "For everything."
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to respond to an apology for something that had happened before either of us was born. Something that had shaped both our lives in ways we were only beginning to understand.
"It's not your fault," I said finally.
"That does not make it better."
"No." I moved closer. "It doesn't."
We stood there, two feet apart, the weight of our families' history pressing down between us. I thought about my mom. About James Chen. About all the choices they'd made, all the secrets they'd kept, trying to protect the people they loved.
I thought about Dominic, standing in my apartment, choosing me over his father. Over his family. Over everything he'd ever known.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Now?" He looked at me. Really looked at me. "Now we figure out how to keep you alive."
"That's not—"
My phone rang.
We both froze. I pulled it out, looked at the screen. Unknown number.
"Don't answer it," Dominic said.
But I was already hitting accept. Bringing it to my ear.
"Hello?"
Silence. Then a voice I recognized. Smooth. Calm. Terrifying in its composure.
"Miss Whitley. I think it is time we had a conversation."
Marcus Ashford.
My blood turned to ice. I looked at Dominic. His face had gone pale.
"About what?" I managed.
"About your mother. About James Chen. About the rather interesting claim you seem to think you have to my family's assets." A pause. "And about what happens to people who threaten the Ashford legacy."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, pulse hammering. Dominic was saying something but I couldn't hear him over the rushing in my ears. Marcus knew. He knew everything. And he was—
My phone rang again.
Different number this time. I answered without thinking.
"Sloane." Dominic's voice. But not from across the room. From the phone.
I looked up. He was standing right in front of me, his own phone pressed to his ear, his face a mask of confusion.
"I did not call you," he said.
"Then who—"
"I know who your father was."
The voice came from my phone. Dominic's voice. But his lips weren't moving.
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone. At the call log. At the number that had just called me—Dominic's number. But Dominic was standing right here. Wasn't calling me. Was looking at his own phone with growing horror.
"Someone cloned my phone," he said. "Someone has access to—"
The lights went out.