Chapter 3 - THE ROOM OF SHADOWS
The secondary lounge was dimly lit. The blackout curtains were drawn shut against the city lights, leaving only the soft glow of a single brass floor lamp in the corner.
Clara was sitting on a plush leather armchair, holding the toddler in her lap. The boy had fallen asleep, his thumb tucked into his mouth, his small chest rising and falling in deep, peaceful rhythms. Clara looked up as Ethan entered, her face remaining cold, impassive.
Ethan locked the door behind him. He walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping a few feet from her.
"Who are you?" Ethan whispered. The question sounded absurd, but the dissonance in his brain was growing louder by the minute. "My records say I was in Zurich from October to February three years ago. I have the medical receipts. I have the neurological scans."
Clara let out a short, bitter laugh. It was a dry, hollow sound. "Zurich. Is that what they told you?"
She shifted the child slightly, her hand stroking the boy's dark curls.
"You were never in Zurich, Ethan. You were in a cottage outside of Orono, Maine. We lived there for seven months. You were writing your book on algorithmic privacy. You didn't want your father’s money. You didn't want the Sterling partnership. You wanted out."
Ethan gripped the back of an armchair. "If that’s true... why did I leave?"
"You didn't leave," Clara said, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the room like a razor. "You were taken."
Ethan's breath hitched. "Taken? By whom?"
"By the people who own you," Clara said, her eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. "You woke up one morning with a fever. A doctor arrived—a man with a smooth voice and German accent. He said you had a severe neurological reaction to an auto-immune disorder. He gave you an injection. I tried to stop him, but two men held me down. They took you out on a stretcher. When I went to the police in Bangor, they told me I didn't exist. They showed me records proving you were in Switzerland. They threatened to take my baby away if I ever came near Boston."
"Dr. Weber," Ethan muttered, his hand going to his neck, where a small, faint white scar sat just beneath his jawline. He had always believed it was from a childhood biking accident.
"The boy," Ethan said, staring at the sleeping child. "What is his name?"
"Leo," Clara said. "His name is Leo. Named after your grandfather."
Ethan felt a tear slip down his cheek. Leo. The name felt familiar, like a melody he had forgotten how to play but recognized the instant it was struck. He reached out, his hand trembling, to touch the boy's cheek.
"Ethan, don't," Clara warned, though her voice softened slightly. "If they know I told you this, they won't just ruin you. They will erase us."
"Who is 'they'?" Ethan demanded.
Before Clara could answer, the door handle clicked. Ethan turned sharply as the door swung open.
Dr. Julian Weber stood in the doorway. He was a tall man in his late fifties, dressed in a silver-grey suit that mirrored Ethan's own. He wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles, behind which sat eyes that were utterly devoid of warmth. Behind him stood Sienna, her phone still clasped tightly in her hand.
"Ethan," Dr. Weber said, his voice smooth, warm, and accented with a subtle Swiss precision. "Sienna told me you were having a difficult evening. Please, step away from the woman."
"Stay back, Julian," Ethan said, stepping between Weber and Clara. "What did you do to me three years ago?"
Dr. Weber sighed, a paternal, disappointed sound. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a small silver syringe kit.
"I saved your life, Ethan," Weber said calmly. "And now, it appears, your neuro-regressive episode is far more advanced than we anticipated. Sienna, please clear the hallway. We need to administer the stabilizer immediately."
Ethan looked at Weber, then at Sienna. Sienna wasn't looking at him; she was looking at the small boy in Clara's arms with an expression that wasn't sorrow or shock—it was disgust.
"Ethan," Clara whispered from behind him, her voice trembling with terror. "Look at his watch."
Ethan glanced down at Dr. Weber's wrist. Emerging from beneath the crisp white cuff of Weber's shirt was a heavy silver watch. Engraved on the clasp was a tiny, intricate crest—a crest of two intertwined serpents around a dagger.
It was the crest of Sterling Global Security.
Ethan's mind raced. If Weber worked for Sterling before Ethan even met Sienna... then his entire life—his recovery, his romance with Sienna, his rise to CEO—had been an orchestrated performance.
"Get behind me," Ethan said to Clara.
May you like
Dr. Weber took a step forward, his eyes locking onto Ethan's with a cold, hypnotic authority. "Ethan. You are sick. You are imagining things. Lower your arms."
"No," Ethan said. And for the first time in three years, he felt a sense of absolute clarity.
