Chapter 4 – The Watch In The Photograph

I stared at the photograph until the edges blurred.

Roman. Roman was holding my mother. They looked happy. Intimate. The kind of closeness you don’t fake for a camera.

I had worked in this house for two years. Roman had never given any indication that he knew me, or my mother. He treated me with polite distance, the way a billionaire treats the staff. Did he know who I was? Did he know I was Madeline’s daughter?

I flipped the photograph over. On the back, in my mother’s handwriting, was a date.

August 14th, 1998.

Exactly one year before I was born.

My stomach plummeted. I looked at the little girl in the photo—wait. I looked closer at the date. If this was August 1998, the little girl in the picture couldn’t be me. I wasn’t born yet.

Who was the little girl holding my mother’s hand?

I shoved the letter and the photograph into my pocket. I needed answers. I couldn’t wait until morning. I needed to see my mother.

I slipped out of the estate through the kitchen door. The security guard at the gate knew me and let me pass without question. I drove my beat-up Honda Civic through the empty Connecticut roads, breaking every speed limit until I reached St. Jude’s Hospital.

My mother was in the cardiac ward, waiting for her surgery.

I bypassed the front desk and hurried to her room. She was awake, staring at the ceiling, the heart monitor beeping steadily beside her.

“Claire?” she whispered, turning her head. “What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”

“Mom.” I walked to the edge of her bed. I didn’t know how to start. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver bracelet.

My mother’s eyes widened. She tried to sit up, but grimaced in pain. “Where did you get that?”

“Eleanor DeLuca gave it to me tonight,” I said. “She said Isabella took it from you.”

My mother squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked out of the corners. “I told you never to get involved with that family, Claire. I begged you not to take that job.”

“You said they paid well,” I cried softly. “You never told me you knew them! Mom, did you… did you switch Isabella’s medication?”

My mother let out a heartbreaking sob. “Victoria Hayes came to our apartment, Claire. You were just a baby. She had men with her. She said if I didn’t switch the IV bags during my shift, she would take you away and I would never see you again.”

“Why you?” I asked. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Because Victoria had leverage on me.” My mother opened her eyes, looking at me with pure terror. “She knew about your sister.”

I froze. “My what?”

“The little girl in the photograph,” my mother whispered. “Her name was Maya.”

I pulled the photo from my pocket, holding it up. “This little girl? Who is she? Where is she?”

“She’s dead, Claire.” My mother wept into her hands. “She died in a car accident when you were a baby. It was my fault. I was driving.”

“And Roman?” I pointed to the man in the photo. “Why is Roman holding you? Were you… were you together?”

My mother stopped crying. She looked at the photograph, then looked at me, a deep confusion crossing her face.

“Claire,” she said slowly. “That isn’t Roman.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking at the picture again. The dark hair, the sharp jawline, the piercing eyes. “It looks exactly like him.”

“It’s his younger brother,” my mother whispered. “Julian DeLuca. Your father.”

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