Chapter 4
It was the first time Mason'd ever used that word. Truth. Not "what happened," not "the past," the truth.
Hannah suddenly smiled. Her smile was flawless, just like Calla's in the private room, neat, precise, and utterly cold.
"The truth?" she said, stepping closer, her perfume filling the air, the same scent Clare wore. "The truth is, you signed the papers, paid her severance, and told her to get lost. The truth is, I protected you, so you could marry Clare with a clean slate. The truth is..."
"She took a knife for me," Mason said.
Hannah's words died in her throat.
Mason rolled up his sleeve, revealing a faint scar on the inside of his forearm. He hadn't even noticed it until last night in the shower, a cluster of tiny pinpricks, blurred together in a strange pattern.
Marks left by the sedative.
"That day, during the kidnapping," Mason said, "what did they inject me with?"
"A sedative. You were out of it," Hannah replied.
"And after that? When I woke up, who told me she'd taken the money and left?" Mason demanded.
Hannah's nails dug into her palm.
"Mom," Mason said, his voice so soft that it sounded like he was talking about the weather, "I'm going to check the hospital records from back then. If she really had an abortion, there'd be a file."
"You won't find anything," Hannah said.
"Why?" Mason asked.
"Because..." Hannah stopped, like she suddenly caught herself.
The doorbell rang.
The butler went to answer it, and when he returned, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Mr. Spencer, Miss Scott is here. She says she's come to reclaim her mother's heirloom."
Mason rushed to the window.
Down below, a black sedan was parked, and Calla stood beside it, dressed in a black suit, like she was there for a funeral. She looked up, her gaze cutting straight through three stories, icy and unflinching.
A smile played on her lips.
That smile flashed him back to five years ago, the last time she turned on the steps and looked at him. It was the same smile. Back then, he thought she was surrendering; now he realized it was her verdict, her way of saying it was over.
"Let her come up," Hannah said. "I want to see for myself..."
"No," Mason said, turning away. "I'm going down."
He moved fast, like he was both running away and chasing after something. In the elevator mirror, his face looked just like it did five years ago. Except now, he was a completely different man.
Calla stood in the garden, gardenias blooming at their peak. She wasn't admiring the flowers. Her gaze was locked on the Patek Philippe on her wrist. Not the one he'd given her; that one had long since found its way to the trash.
"Ms. Scott," Mason said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.
"Mr. Spencer," Calla replied, nodding like she was greeting a stranger at a business mixer. "My lawyer should have already..."
"I know," Mason cut her off.
"The bracelet," Calla said.
"It's in the auction house's vault," Mason said. "I can arrange..."
"No need," Calla said, lifting her gaze. "I've already filed for a property preservation order. In three days, the court will enforce it."
She paused, then added, "By the way, I found something interesting. The previous seller was actually an overseas account under Spencer Group. March 2019, the same month I got booted from the family."
Mason's face changed.
"You didn't know?" Calla tilted her head, like she was examining a weird specimen in a petri dish. "Mr. Spencer, your mother used your money to buy something that belonged to me, then handed it off to your fiancée. Not even a soap opera writer would go this far."
"Calla," Mason began.
"Ms. Scott," Calla said, cutting him off.
"Ms. Scott," Mason repeated, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. "About what happened back then, I need some time..."
"You don't have time," Calla interrupted. "All you have is my patience. And patience? It doesn't last forever."
Her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen and answered, "Mr. Rivera, I'm dealing with something personal. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
She hung up and gave him one last look.
That look was just like last night, cold and indifferent, as if he were nothing more than a rain-soaked piece of furniture: disposable, easily replaced.
"Mason," Calla said, "I don't want that bracelet anymore. I'm donating it to the museum with a note: 'Evidence of class violence.' What do you think?"
She turned and walked away, her skirt sweeping through the gardenias.
Mason stood there, breathing in the blend of flowers and perfume, so sweet it was almost overwhelming. Just like what she said last night: "Don't ever show up in my life again."
His phone buzzed with a message from his assistant: [Mr. Spencer, we found the hospital records from back then. Ms. Scott was admitted, but... there's no record of an abortion.]
His finger froze on the screen.
No surgery.
Joshua was his son.
*****
Elena slapped the paternity test report down on the table just as Mason was standing outside the Scott Biotech building.