Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN ROMAN COULDN’T SAVE
Roman destroyed a chair.
Sophia watched him pick it up and smash it against the concrete wall of the terminal storage room.
Once.
Twice.
The third strike broke a leg clean off.
Gabriel startled in her arms.
“Roman!”
He stopped instantly.
The silence after was worse.
Roman dropped the chair.
“I’m sorry.”
Sophia stared.
“You don’t have to apologize to me.”
“I scared him.”
That was what bothered him.
Not the chair.
Not the blood across his knuckles.
Gabriel.
Roman sat on the floor.
For a billionaire feared across half the city, he suddenly looked exhausted.
“Evelyn was driving home from dinner,” he said.
Sophia stayed quiet.
“A drunk driver crossed the median. That’s what they told me.”
“Did they catch him?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He confessed.”
Roman laughed bitterly.
“He died in prison six months later.”
Sophia understood.
“Convenient.”
Roman looked at her.
“Very.”
They returned to Roman’s office and pulled old records.
Evelyn Hart.
Age twenty-nine.
Four months pregnant.
Roman found the crash report.
Sophia read it over his shoulder.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“This says she was taken to St. Matthew’s.”
“Yes.”
“That’s where Gabriel was born.”
Roman looked at her.
Sophia’s stomach tightened.
Roman requested archival admission logs through a contact.
One hour later, the screen filled with scanned records.
Evelyn Hart had been admitted after the crash.
But there was another file.
A fetal emergency intake.
Roman opened it.
Sophia covered her mouth.
The unborn child had shown signs of cardiac activity after Evelyn was declared clinically dead.
Roman’s voice became rough.
“They told me the baby died instantly.”
The record continued.
Emergency C-section authorized.
Infant delivered.
Female.
Alive for forty-three minutes.
Roman stopped.
Sophia whispered, “Roman…”
He kept reading.
Then his face hardened.
The final line made no sense.
INFANT TRANSFERRED — PRIVATE AUTHORIZATION.
Not deceased.
Transferred.
“To where?” Sophia asked.
Roman searched.
No destination.
No death certificate.
Nothing.
Then Marcus entered.
“We found something on the old Callaway Strategic servers.”
Roman looked up.
Marcus placed a photograph on the table.
A girl.
Maybe eight years old.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
Roman’s eyes.
On the back:
E.H. / FEMALE / TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL
Roman stopped breathing.
Sophia whispered, “How old would your daughter be now?”
Roman stared at the photograph.
“Eight.”
Marcus looked sick.
“There’s more.”
He placed another document beside it.
A payment authorization.
Signed eleven years ago.
May you like
Not by Roman’s father.
By Roman’s mother.
