Chapter 8 - Emma Was Pregnant, and the Twins Who Had Once Been Ten Days From Death Became the Most Protective Big Siblings in Chicago—Until Margaret Sent One Final Warning From PrisonPregnancy changed everything.
Jonah became protective.
Blythe became obsessed with names.
She suggested Princess.
Jonah suggested Rex.
Emma vetoed both.
I didn't care.
I was happy.
Terrified.
Happy.
For the first time in years, the future felt possible.
No countdown.
No hospital alarms.
No hidden reports.
No fear.
The foundation grew.
The old illegal businesses were gone.
The legitimate companies continued.
I became less involved in daily operations.
I wanted home.
That word meant something different now.
Home was where the children laughed.
Where Emma left books on the couch.
Where Blythe practiced dance in the hallway.
Where Jonah built science projects on the kitchen table.
Home was no longer a fortress.
It was a family.
Then Margaret sent a letter.
The prison delivered it.
No threat.
No demand.
Just four words.
YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING.
I nearly threw it away.
Emma stopped me.
“Read it.”
The letter described something I had missed.
Genevieve had been pregnant before the twins.
She had miscarried.
We knew.
What we didn't know was that the pregnancy had been part of the research.
Margaret had monitored it.
The loss had been caused by stress.
The same experiment that later affected Jonah and Blythe.
I felt sick.
She had experimented on my wife.
On our children.
Emma read the rest.
Margaret claimed the research could cure cancer.
Maybe it could.
But the cost was monstrous.
We found independent researchers who had reviewed the same data.
They confirmed the science was promising.
But it didn't require harming children.
There were ethical alternatives.
Margaret had chosen cruelty because it was faster.
That was the difference between medicine and obsession.
I testified publicly.
The research became a case study in medical ethics.
The foundation funded alternatives.
The project was shut down.
Completely.
Our baby was born healthy.
A girl.
We named her Genevieve.
The twins cried when they met her.
Jonah whispered:
“She is so small.”
Blythe touched her hand.
“She looks angry.”
Emma laughed.
I held my daughter.
For a moment, I thought about Genevieve.
My first wife.
The mother of the twins.
The woman I had loved.
I promised my newborn daughter something.
“You will never belong to anyone's experiment.”
Emma squeezed my hand.
“We all promise that.”
Years passed.
The family became normal.
Or as normal as ours could be.
Jonah became interested in science.
Blythe loved art.
Genevieve loved animals.
The foundation continued.
I retired from the remnants of the old organization.
Thomas opened a legitimate logistics company.
Prescott became head of foundation security.
Emma ran the children's programs.
Our home remained full.
One evening, Jonah asked:
“Dad, why was Grandpa so bad?”
I thought before answering.
“Because he believed a goal mattered more than people.”
Jonah nodded.
“And Margaret?”
“Same.”
“What about you?”
I looked at him.
“I used to think that too.”
He frowned.
“You changed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I smiled.
“Because I had someone worth losing everything for.”
He hugged me.
I cried.
That was what I wanted my children to remember.
Not the violence.
Not the money.
The choice.
One winter evening, Emma and I sat by the fireplace.
“Do you ever think about Genevieve?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“That she would have liked this.”
Emma smiled.
“I think she would have liked the foundation.”
“Yes.”
“She would have liked the children.”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
I laughed.
“She would probably have interrogated you for three hours.”
Emma smiled.
“Fair.”
I looked at her.
“I think she would have thanked you.”
“For what?”
“For staying.”
Emma's eyes filled.
“I think she would have thanked you too.”
We held hands.
Then the phone rang.
Thomas.
“Lawson.”
“Yes?”
“There's been an incident.”
“What?”
“Someone broke into the foundation archive.”
I stood.
“What was taken?”
“One file.”
“Which one?”
“Genevieve's original research.”
My stomach tightened.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Emma looked at me.
Someone had stolen the one thing that could still contain secrets.
The archive showed no forced entry.
No camera footage.
Only a single fingerprint.
Mine.
Someone had copied my fingerprint.
That meant the enemy had access to my old biometric files.
May you like
The past wasn't finished.
Not completely.
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