The drive to the clinic the next morning was a study in charged silence.
Julian sat in the back of the rented sedan, his gaze fixed on the passing
alpine scenery as if seeing it for the first time. In the front, Silas drove
with his usual focused calm, while Elara navigated, her mind processing the
seismic shift of the previous night.
An alliance. With Julian Cohen. The idea was so preposterous it circled
back to being the only logical move. Robert was a broken pawn. Arthur was the
cold, calculating king who had orchestrated the board. But Steven—the ghost,
the spurned lover, the vengeful biological father—was the wild card who had set
the pieces in motion. He had built Kore Tech not just for profit, but as a
weapon. He had partnered with Robert not just for business, but to corrode the
world that had stolen his son and broken his love. He was the true puppet
master, his strings reaching from the past into every present crisis.
"He'll be expecting something," Julian said suddenly, his voice cutting
through the quiet. He wasn't looking at them, still staring out the window.
"Arthur. He knows I'm unmoored. He'll have increased her security, or he'll
have people watching for me specifically."
"We've accounted for that," Silas replied, his eyes on the winding road.
"Our cover is for a couple evaluating the facility for an elderly relative with
complex needs. Ben has created a full medical history for our 'Aunt Eloise,'
including a recent, tragic family schism that requires discretion. Your
presence, if questioned, will be as our financial advisor, assessing the
long-term cost structures. It's thin, but it should get us through the door and
into an administrator's office."
"And from there?" Julian asked, a trace of his old sharpness returning,
now turned toward a common goal.
"From there, we deviate," Elara said, turning in her seat to meet his
eyes. "Silas has identified a service corridor that leads to the private wing.
Security there is heavier, but it's designed to keep people in, not out. Our
goal is to get you to her room. A five-minute window. That's all we can risk on
a first incursion."
"First incursion?" Julian caught the phrasing.
"We're not extracting her today," Silas stated. "That's a full-scale
operation requiring logistics we don't have in place. Today is reconnaissance.
Verification. And, if possible, establishing contact."
Julian absorbed this, nodding slowly. The pragmatic approach seemed to
steady him. He was entering a battlefield, and Silas was his unexpected
general. "And Steven? How do we… take him down? You can't prosecute a ghost."
"We make him real," Elara said, her voice firm. "The ledger links Kore
Tech to Hayes. You've just given us the testimony that links Kore Tech's
creation and purpose to Steven. We follow the money from the ledger, merge it
with the money he's been sending here to silence your mother. We find his
current assets, his holdouts. He's been operating in the shadows for decades,
using Robert as a shield. We take Robert out of the picture, the shield is
gone. We expose the financial trails, the shield cracks. And when he's exposed,
he'll have two choices: run forever, or come out fighting."
"He'll fight," Julian said with cold certainty. "He's spent his entire
life fighting Arthur in secret. A public challenge? From you? From me? It'll be
a crusade for him."
"Then we'll be ready," Silas said, turning the car onto the secluded
lane that led to the clinic's gates. "But first things first. Your composure in
there is critical. You're not Julian Cohen, heir. You're Mr. Alden, financial
consultant. Your only interest is amortisation schedules and dietary budgets.
Understood?"
Julian met his gaze in the rearview mirror. The old arrogance was gone,
replaced by a grim determination. "Understood."
The Sanatorium Alpenruhe was even more imposing up close. The air was
painfully clean, the silence profound. They were met by a perfectly poised
administrator, Dr. Richter, who gave them a tour of the immaculate,
depressingly cheerful common areas and standard suites. Julian played his part
flawlessly, asking pointed questions about endowment funds and staff-to-patient
ratios, his aristocratic bearing lending credence to his role.
As they neared the end of the tour, Silas triggered the diversion. A
small, non-critical alarm—courtesy of Ethan remotely interfering with a
thermostat system—sounded in a staff kitchen down the hall. Dr. Richter was
momentarily distracted, apologising and instructing an aide to investigate.
"Now," Silas murmured.
In a practiced move, Elara engaged Dr. Richter with a question about art
therapy, while Silas and Julian slipped down the unmarked service corridor
Silas had memorised from the blueprints. The air grew cooler, the décor
shifting from warm wood to sterile white. A secure door with a keypad stood
between them and the private wing.
Silas produced a handheld device, wiring it into the keypad's housing.
"Thirty seconds," he whispered.
Julian stood rigid, his breathing shallow. He was moments away from
facing the source of his life's great lie.
The lock gave a soft click. Silas pushed the door open, revealing a
hushed, carpeted hallway with numbered rooms. Room 7. According to the floor
plan and the payment records, that was hers.
They moved quickly. Silas took up a position at the hallway junction, a
silent lookout. Julian approached the door alone. He paused, his hand hovering
over the handle. For a man who commanded boardrooms, he looked utterly
terrified.
He opened the door.
The room was not a cell. It was a lovely, sun-drenched suite with a
balcony overlooking the valley. Books lined a shelf, classical music played
softly from a hidden speaker. And in a wingback chair by the window, wrapped in
a cashmere shawl, sat a woman.
She was older, her face lined with a history of quiet sorrow, but her
beauty was still evident—the same ethereal, haunting beauty Greta had
described. She looked up as he entered, and her eyes, a clear, soft grey,
widened. There was no fear, only a deep, weary curiosity.
Julian stood frozen in the doorway, unable to speak, unable to move. The
resemblance was not striking; it was subtle, in the set of the mouth, the arch
of the brow. But the feeling in the room was absolute—a primal, silent
recognition that bypassed words.
She tilted her head, a faint, almost forgotten light stirring in her
eyes. Her lips parted.
"Steven?" she whispered, the name a breath of old, confused hope.
The word shattered him. In that single, mistaken identification, he saw
the entire tragedy. She saw the ghost of her lover in her son's face.
He fell to his knees, not in homage, but because his legs would no
longer hold him. A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
Her confusion cleared, replaced by a dawning, earth-shattering wonder.
She slowly rose from her chair, the shawl slipping from her shoulders. She took
two steps toward him, her hand trembling as it reached out.
"No…," she breathed, her voice gaining strength, layered with four
decades of grief. "Not Steven. You're… you're my…"
"Julian," he managed to gasp, the tears he had never allowed himself now
streaming freely. "My name is Julian."
Her hand touched his cheek, a feather-light contact that seemed to send
a current through them both. A single, perfect tear traced a path identical to
his down her pale skin.
"My boy," she whispered, the words a long-awaited benediction and a
devastating truth. "My beautiful, impossible boy."
In the hallway, Silas watched the chronograph on his wrist. The
five-minute window was evaporating. He glanced into the room, saw the profound,
silent tableau of mother and son, and made a decision. He gave them two minutes
more.
This was no longer just an alliance to defeat Steven Cohen. It was the
first step in undoing his greatest crime. And as Silas watched Julian cling to
his mother's hand, he knew the puppet master's most vulnerable string had just
been found—and it was in the hands of his own son.