Trying To Prove
The door creaked open
I didn’t even need to look.
I knew it was him.
Rowan stepped in quietly, like the moment didn’t belong to him but he needed to be part of it anyway. His hair was a mess, shirt wrinkled like he’d slept sitting up—and knowing him, he probably had. But his eyes. God. Those eyes had shadows in them.
He looked at me like he didn’t believe I was real.
“Hey,” I said, my voice still a little rough.
He walked closer, slow, as if too fast would break the moment.
Then, gently, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
I smiled faintly. “That was nice.”
He pulled back, eyes flicking across my face. “You scared me.”
I blinked up at him. “You dove into a moving car. That’s not exactly a calm reaction either.”
Rowan let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.
“There was no one in it,” he said after a moment. “No driver. Just you in the back. Tied up. The car was rolling toward a cliff.”
My stomach flipped. “I remember the darkness. The cold.”
“You weren’t breathing right,” he murmured. “And your lips were blue when I pulled you out.”
I swallowed, something sharp rising in my throat. “But I’m here.”
“You’re here,” he echoed.
Jo cleared her throat from the corner. “Okay, okay, I’m going to step out before this becomes a soap opera. I’ll be down the hall.”
I rolled my eyes fondly as she slipped out.
When she was gone, I looked back at him. “You didn’t tell me everything.”
Rowan stiffened slightly.
I tilted my head. “I may be drugged, but I’m not stupid.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You didn’t mention Cedricz I believe that was the last thing we found out before I was kidnapped,” I said quietly.
Rowan's jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to overload you.”
“I dreamed about people I didn’t know,” I murmured. “I thought maybe it was just the drugs. But what if it wasn’t? What if some part of me knew?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then sat beside the bed.
His voice dropped. “There’s a lot you still don’t know, Remi. But it’s not because I don’t want to tell you. It’s because I need you strong when you hear it.”
I nodded slowly, resting my head back against the pillow.
Silence settled for a beat.
Then I smirked, my voice soft. “Can’t believe the surgeon is the one stuck in the hospital.”
Rowan blinked, then let out a laugh—real and full.
“Only you would say that,” he said, shaking his head.
I grinned. “What can I say? I have a flair for irony.”
His eyes lingered on me.
And for a moment, the fear faded. Not gone. Just pushed back—by the warmth in his voice and the way he still looked at me like I was worth saving.
It made me smile.
How life had changed.
******
Two weeks.
That’s how long it had been since I woke up in the hospital bed, disoriented and high on a toxic cocktail of hallucinogens.
Two weeks since Rowan dove into a moving car and saved my life.
Two weeks since I found out I wasn’t just Remi Laurent—I was Remi Farsworth De Luca. Seem like I lived my mum life during hallucination. There was no scientific fact.
But regardless at least now I know something about my father a big.
And today… I was done resting.
My bruises had faded, the dull headaches finally gone, and I was officially cleared to return to work.
But I wasn’t going back to some cozy office or a passive shift at the hospital.
No.
I was going to war.
The government had moved to shut down my research lab under “suspicion of mismanaged resources and unreported foreign investments”—a fancy way of saying Davenport’s filthy hands had twisted just enough strings to make it all look shady. My lab. My funding. My research. Everything I’d built with blood, sweat, and brilliance was being threatened because one bitter man couldn’t stand the fact that I wasn’t dead.
Not only was I alive—I was pissed.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my apartment, smoothing the crease of my tailored blazer. Black, of course. Sharp, structured, and intimidating. My hair was pinned back neatly, lips glossed with something subtle but firm.
Jo was bouncing beside me, holding a tablet in one hand and her car keys in the other. “Okay, so we’ve got copies of all the financial audits, the private fund logs, the experimental records, signed testimonials from your partners, the grant re-approval from the EU medical board, and my personal favorite—surveillance footage of Davenport meeting with a supposed ‘inspector’ in a parking lot.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy.”
She grinned. “Someone tried to kill my best friend. That gets me motivated.”
I turned to her. “Speaking of friends… you good? How’s the baby?”
Jo's smile softened. She placed a hand on her tiny bump, barely visible under her peach-colored jumpsuit. “We’re fine. Baby’s been craving watermelon and rice crackers. The weirdest combo ever.”
“You sure you should be coming with me?”
Jo waved her off. “Please. Watching you decimate a room full of crusty government officials is the most excitement I’ll get all week. Besides, you need someone to hold your earrings if this turns into a courtroom brawl.”
I laughed, the tension in my chest loosening a little.
She leaned in, nudging me with her elbow. “Now go break a leg, Dr. Farsworth.”
I straightened my spine.
Time to finish what I started.
\---
The government hearing was held in one of those cold, modern boardrooms that reeked of bureaucracy and recycled air. The panel sat like a row of vultures, dressed in matching charcoal suits and judgmental expressions. Davenport wasn’t there—of course not. He wouldn’t soil his designer shoes by showing up in person. But I could feel his fingerprints all over this mess.
One of the lead officials, a balding man with thin-rimmed glasses and a voice like lukewarm tea, cleared his throat.
“Dr. Laurent—”
“Farsworth,” I corrected without blinking. “Remi Farsworth De Luca.”
He faltered. “Right… Miss De Luca. We’re here to review the grounds for the suspension of your research facility under Article—”
“I know the Article,” I said, my voice clear and measured. “The one reserved for cases involving fraud, medical endangerment, or hostile international affiliations. Which, let me be clear, do not apply to my lab.”
A few brows raised.
He glanced at his papers, clearly trying to find footing. “It appears there were unverified donations from offshore accounts…”
“Which I’ve already submitted documentation for,” I interrupted, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out a neatly bound packet. I slid it across the table. “Page five. Each donation. Source. Purpose. Veri
fied and taxed. Nothing illegal, nothing hidden.”
Another panel member—a woman in her late fifties—flipped through it. Her expression tightened.
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