In the Archives
At the hospital, the doctors moved fast. Too fast. They drew blood, whispered in hushed tones, and pumped something into her veins. Words like “neurotoxin,” “hallucinogenic trace,” and “compound not typically prescribed” filtered in and out of Rowan’s ears like smoke.
He paced the corridor.
Couldn’t sit.
Couldn’t breathe right.
One of the doctors finally stepped out, his expression grave.
“What the hell did they give her?” Rowan demanded.
The man sighed. “We believe a small dose of a modified state drug. A version of midazolam, but laced with something else. It’s causing hallucinations. Disorientation. She’s stable—for now—but her mind is under stress. We’re monitoring closely.”
“Hallucinations?” Rowan repeated, his throat tightening.
“She may not know what’s real for the next twenty-four hours.”
He didn’t speak. Just nodded stiffly and turned back to the hallway.
He barely made it two steps before it hit.
A sharp, sudden throb behind his eyes. Like a blade sliding in slow.
He staggered, grabbing his head.
Callum caught him instantly. “Sir—Rowan—”
He couldn’t answer.
His knees buckled.
And then it was there. The memory.
Like a punch to the chest.
A hallway.
Dim lighting.
He stood in front of her. Younger. Angrier. Sharper around the edges.
Remi looked up at him, eyes red, face pale. She wore that old navy sweatshirt—the one she always wore to bed when she didn’t feel well. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides. Her voice had trembled when she asked him where he’d been.
And he…
He had laughed.
Cruel. Cold.
“You think I owe you an answer?”
Remi didn’t move. “You didn’t come home.”
“So?”
“You were with her again.”
He remembered the way his jaw clenched. The way he took a step toward her. Taller. Stronger. Meaner.
“I can fuck who I want, Remi,” he had spat.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes—those goddamn green eyes—looked like they’d just been hit.
“You’re not my wife,” he hissed. “You’re a contract. A formality. A favor. Don’t forget that.”
She flinched, but still didn’t speak.
He kept going.
Because he couldn’t stop himself.
“God, look at you. You’re weak. Pathetic. Disgusting.”
He remembered how her arms wrapped around her middle, her chin trembling. She looked… ill. Not just sad, not just broken. Sick. Physically sick.
And he’d walked right past her.
Shoved her shoulder.
Didn’t look back.
And then—
The memory snapped.
Rowan gasped and jolted forward, hand pressed hard to the side of his head. His vision swam. His breath hitched.
“Sir,” Callum said, firm but steady. “Sit. Sit down. Now.”
Callum helped him to the waiting room bench, forcing him to breathe.
“That wasn’t just a dream,” Rowan muttered. “That happened.”
Callum didn’t answer. Just knelt beside him.
“They drugged her,” Rowan whispered. “And I remembered…”
He shut his eyes, jaw trembling. “I was horrible to her.”
“She survived you, Rowan,” Callum said quietly. “Now she’s surviving this.”
The weight of it slammed into him all at once.
Not just the kidnapping.
Not just the drugs.
Not just the fear of losing her.
But the truth that maybe—just maybe—this was karma.
Rowan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the white floor tiles like they could somehow cleanse him of everything he’d done.
“I called her disgusting,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “She was sick. She was… pregnant, and I didn’t know. And I called her that.”
Callum stayed silent. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t excuse.
That was why Rowan kept him around.
Truth. Brutal truth.
And right now, he needed it.
“Ever since my grandfather hit me with that cane,” Rowan muttered, “the flashbacks keep coming. Little things. Out of order. But they’re real.”
He rubbed his forehead. “How many more are waiting in there?”
Callum placed a hand on his shoulder. “However many it takes for you to finally do right by her.”
Rowan didn’t speak again.
He just stared at the door behind which Remi lay drugged, fighting ghosts.
And for the first time in years, he was terrified.
Not of losing his company.
But of the woman who had once loved him seeing the man he used to be—
And walking away for good.
Rowan rubbed a hand down his face, still staring blankly at the closed hospital room door when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number.
His brows drew together.
Only one person used burner numbers like this.
He answered it immediately, voice low and strained. “Speak.”
“Got something,” Sebastian said. His tone wasn’t casual—it was tight, alert. “You told me to look into that old photo. The one from Remi’s stuff—taken when she was a toddler?”
Rowan straightened, his heart skipping. “You found something?”
“It wasn’t easy. Took a few bribes. A few dusty boxes. But yes. Her name showed up in the archives. Official government ones. Sealed until recently.”
Rowan gripped the edge of the bench. “And?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sebastian said flatly, “Her name isn’t just Remi Laurent.”
Rowan frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
“She was born Remi Harper Farsworth.”
The name hit Rowan like a brick to the chest. Farsworth?
“Her parents?”
Another beat.
“Her mother was Elena Harper Farsworth. And her father—” Sebastian hesitated, which Rowan hated— “was Cedric De Luca.”
Rowan’s breath left him in a whoosh. He stood up, heart pounding.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so too. But I found the registry. The birth record. And even a photograph in the old archives. Cedric holding her as a baby.”
Rowan began to pace.
“Cedric De Luca?” he repeated, like saying it again would make it make sense.
“Yeah. The Cedric. Mafia patriarch. Known as The Iron Wolf of Florence.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Rowan ran a hand through his hair.
Remi was Cedric De Luca’s daughter?
How?
How had no one known?
Sebastian continued. “It checks out. The timelines match. Elena Harper was presumed dead in a car accident two decades ago. Her body was never recovered. But there’s a sealed document showing she was alive for two years after that. Hospital records from a small clinic outside Milan.”
“And?”
“She gave birth there. Under her maiden name. Alone. Guess who signed the birth certificate as the father?”
Rowan closed his eyes.
“Cedric De Luca.”
It was too much. Too fast.
Rowan turned toward the window, watching the city lights flicker outside. His mind spun, chasing fragments of information that refused to settle.
Cedric De Luca.
The same man who once walked into a UN summit flanked by more security than the President. The man who vanished from the public eye and became a ghost with whispers of empires in his wake. The man who had enough blood on his hands to stain history.
And Remi… sweet, stubborn, loyal Remi… was his daughter?
He let out a shaky laugh.
Of course she was.
It explained everything.
The poise under pressure. The grit. The sharp instincts. She had that kind of fire in her, the type you couldn’t train—it had to be born.
“Why did no one know?” Rowan asked.
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