Find Him!
ARIANA’S POV
I stared at the envelope like it might hiss and bite.
For a long time, I didn’t move. My fingers hovered above the tucked flap, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths that didn’t quite reach my lungs. It was paper—just paper—but it felt like a grenade waiting to go off in my hands.
And I was about to pull the pin.
I slid my nail beneath the flap and peeled it open.
The silence in the room felt deafening, like the air had thickened around me. I reached inside the envelope, the texture of thick cardstock brushing against my fingertips. Something glossy. Something smooth.
I pulled out a photograph first.
And stopped breathing.
It was old, clearly. At least a decade, maybe more. The edges had yellowed slightly, but the image was crisp, sharp enough to cut me.
My father was in it.
Sitting stiffly in a chair, wearing a forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His arm rested awkwardly on the back of a couch, and beside him stood a woman. Unfamiliar. Plain-looking. Her expression unreadable. And between them, perched on the armrest, was a little boy.
Three, maybe four years old.
Brown hair. Big, serious eyes. A solemn expression too heavy for a child his age.
My stomach twisted.
They didn’t look like a family. They looked like strangers trapped in the same frame, pretending.
The boy wasn’t clinging to my father. He just sat there, looking straight into the lens, like he already knew life wouldn’t be easy.
Like he knew this picture wasn’t for a memory, but for proof.
I flipped the photo over.
Blank. No date. No names. Nothing.
I set it down with trembling hands, my skin prickling like I’d been touched by ice.
Next came the note.
Typed. Like the envelope.
One sentence.
“I know everything about you, but you know nothing about me.”
My blood ran cold.
I stared at the words so long they started to blur. There was no signature. No greeting. Just that single, chilling statement. Like a challenge. Or a threat. Or both.
Everything about me?
How?
Who was he?
The final item in the envelope was a sheet of paper folded in thirds.
I unfolded it slowly, each crease feeling heavier than the last.
My eyes scanned the heading: Paternity Analysis Report.
I stopped breathing.
The names hit me like a punch.
Subject A: William Miller.
Probability of paternity: 99.9997%.
The room tilted.
I gripped the edge of my desk, trying to anchor myself. But the paper crinkled in my fist as my mind reeled.
A DNA test. A photograph. A note.
Proof.
Undeniable. Ruthless. Clean.
I’d asked myself that night if I’d imagined him. That man in the shadows. If maybe I’d hallucinated under the weight of grief and exhaustion. But no. He was real. He was blood. He was my half-brother.
And he knew who I was.
Somehow, he’d gotten something of mine—hair? A glass? Something. Something that let him test our DNA.
The thought made my skin crawl.
How long had he been watching me?
How close had he gotten?
I dropped the paper like it burned. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I felt sick. Violated.
I stood up too fast, the chair groaning behind me. Pacing the room didn’t help, but I couldn’t stay still. My heels clicked across the marble like warning shots.
What did he want?
Why now?
Why not come forward while my father was alive? Why wait until the man who could’ve confirmed or denied everything was in the ground and out of reach?
Because this wasn’t about love.
This wasn’t about closure.
This was about power.
And I knew exactly where he’d aim his next move.
My father’s company.
My company now.
Was that what this was? Some twisted claim to inheritance? An attempt to shake the tree and see what fell out?
If he thought I would roll over and hand him the keys to my father’s legacy, he was in for a hell of a surprise.
He was the product of a mistake.
A moment of weakness.
My father hadn’t loved that woman. He hadn’t married her. He hadn’t brought that child into our lives. He’d buried it. Deep. For a reason.
And now that he was gone, this stranger thought he could claw his way out of the shadows and claim what he had no right to?
No.
Hell no.
The fury hit me so fast, I nearly laughed.
For the first time since Hardin’s plane had taken off, I felt something other than dread.
I felt rage.
Protective. Territorial. Blazing hot and cold all at once.
This wasn’t just about me. It was about my father’s name. His company. His legacy. And if this boy—this stranger—thought I would let him taint that, thought I’d let him blindside my mother with some dramatic reveal?
He didn’t know who the hell he was dealing with.
I moved back to my desk and stuffed the documents back in the envelope with shaky precision. The photo went last, face down, as if I couldn’t stand those haunted eyes staring up at me a second longer.
I had to think.
Had to act.
But I couldn’t do it alone.
Only one name came to mind. One person I trusted to handle this without letting it spiral into a media circus.
I reached for my phone and dialed his number again.
Because with Dante Rivas, you didn’t need labels.
You only needed discretion.
It rang once.
Then twice.
Then—
“Ariana,” he answered smoothly, like he’d been expecting the call.
“I need your help,” I said. My voice cracked, and I hated that it did. “Something’s… come up.”
“Define something.”
I hesitated, staring down at the sealed envelope again. “Someone. He sent me proof. A photo, a note… a DNA test.”
Silence crackled over the line.
“Who?” Dante asked.
I swallowed hard. “It’s him, Dante. My father’s… son. I need you to dig into him. I want to know what he looks like now.”
Another pause.
Then. “I'll get back to you."
He ended the call without another word.
I slumped into my chair, heart still galloping, the ghost of that little boy’s face burned into my mind.
How much did he know?
What did he want?
Was he watching me now?
I glanced toward the glass walls, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed I was. Anyone could be out there. Watching. Listening.
The note echoed in my mind.
‘I know everything about you, but you know nothing about me.’
He was right.
I didn’t know him.
Didn’t know his face now. His intentions.
I only knew he was real.
And that he’d waited until the exact moment my life had begun to settle before yanking the floor out from under me.
Was this revenge?
A warning?
A claim?
My thoughts spiraled as I clenched my jaw and stared out at the skyline.
I wouldn’t let this man—this boy—destroy everything my father built.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t let him rip my mother apart with secrets she wasn’t strong enough to face.
Not if I could stop him.
But to do that, I had to find him.
Fast.
Before he made another move.
Before he stepped out of the shadows.
Before he tried to steal what wasn’t his.
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