Chapter 3 - The Voice in the Dark
The master guest suite in the west wing was designed as a sanctuary—soft cream carpets, soundproof walls, and plush velvet furnishings.
When Julian opened the door, the sight inside made his breath catch.
The large, king-sized bed was surrounded by pillows. Sitting in the middle of it was Clara. She had taken off her apron and laid it over the back of a chair. Leo and Noah were curled up on either side of her, their small heads resting against her thighs. Clara was stroking Noah’s dark curls with one hand while holding Leo’s small, warm hand in hers.
She was humming.
It was low, barely audible above the quiet hum of the climate control system, but the melody was unmistakable. It was the soft, lilting cadence of “The Stars on the Hudson.” And as she reached the bridge, her voice naturally, effortlessly slid into C-sharp.
The twins were completely calm. Their eyes were closed, their breathing deep and rhythmic, entering the deep sleep of exhaustion after their emotional outburst.
Julian stood in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid that if he took a single step, the vision before him would shatter like thin ice.
Clara stopped humming when she noticed him. She offered a quick, nervous apology, starting to lift her legs out from beneath the children. "Mr. Sterling... I’m sorry. I was just trying to get them to sleep. They were so frightened—"
"Don't move," Julian whispered quickly, stepping into the room and closing the door silently behind him. "Please. Stay where you are."
He walked over to the side of the bed and sat down on the leather armchair opposite her. Up close, under the soft bedside lamps, he could see the fine details of her face.
She had a small, crescent-shaped scar just below her left collarbone. Her skin was fair, slightly pale, and her hair, though brown now, had golden undertones when the light hit it.
"Who are you, Clara?" Julian asked, his voice low and pleading.
Clara looked down at the two boys sleeping peacefully against her legs, then raised her eyes to Julian. There was no deceit in her expression—only a profound, crushing sorrow.
"I don't know everything, Mr. Sterling," Clara whispered, her voice trembling. "I swear to you on my life, I don't know the whole truth."
"Tell me what you do know," Julian insisted, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Tell me how you know that song."
Clara took a slow, deep breath, her fingers gently playing with the hem of her sleeve. "Four years ago... I woke up in a private care facility in the mountains near Lake Placid."
Julian’s eyes narrowed instantly. Lake Placid. That was less than forty miles from his private cabin.
"I had no memories," Clara continued, tears pooling in her eyes. "Nothing. No name, no history, no idea who I was. The doctors there told me I had been in a severe car accident. They said my vehicle went off a cliff during a blizzard, and that I had suffered extensive head trauma and facial reconstruction surgery."
Julian felt his blood run cold. "Facial reconstruction?"
Clara nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "They showed me old photographs of a woman named 'Clara Vance.' They told me that was who I was. They gave me forged documents—a birth certificate, high school transcripts, medical records. For two years, I lived in that facility, relearning how to walk, how to talk, how to live."
"Who paid for the facility, Clara?" Julian asked, his voice rising in urgency. "Who managed your care?"
"A trust fund," Clara replied. "The 'Montgomery Medical Foundation.'"
Julian felt as though a knife had been plunged into his chest and twisted.
Montgomery. Senator Richard Montgomery. Victoria’s father.
"Why didn't you stay there?" Julian asked, his heart pounding against his ribs like a sledgehammer.
"Because three years ago, I started having dreams," Clara whispered, her green eyes locking onto Julian’s with an intensity that made his breath hitch. "I didn't dream about car accidents. I didn't dream about the life of Clara Vance. I dreamt about a room filled with books and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking a frozen lake."
Julian’s hands tightened into fists. That was the master bedroom of his cabin.
"I dreamt about two babies," Clara continued, her voice breaking into sob. "I could feel them kicking inside me, Julian. I could feel the weight of them. I could hear a man’s voice... a voice that sounded like thunder, but was soft as velvet when he talked to me. He used to sit behind me on a rocking chair, hold my waist, and put his face in my neck while I sang to them."
Julian let out a ragged, strangled gasp. He reached out, his trembling hand covering his mouth as tears blurred his vision.
That was them. That was their life.
"I asked the doctors about the dreams," Clara wept quietly, careful not to wake the twins. "They told me they were hallucinations caused by brain damage. They put me on heavy psychiatric medication to suppress them. But six months ago, I stopped taking the pills. The memories... they didn't come back completely, but the feelings did. And then, one day, I saw a picture in an architectural magazine."
She looked at Julian, her face filled with unbearable pain. "It was a photo of your Manhattan penthouse. And in the background of the living room, sitting on a side table, was a carved wooden music box shaped like a pinecone."
Julian swallowed hard. "Elena carved that music box," he whispered. "She gave it to me on our second anniversary."
"When I saw that picture," Clara said, "the song came back to me in full force. I didn't know who I was, Mr. Sterling. I didn't know if I was crazy. But I knew I had to get into this house. I applied through the agency. I took a low-paying maid position just to be near those boys."
She looked down at Leo and Noah, her tears falling onto Noah’s dark curls. "The moment I walked into the nursery three weeks ago... the moment I saw their faces... my heart nearly burst out of my chest. I didn't recognize them with my eyes, Mr. Sterling. But my soul knew them. My hands knew how to hold them. And when I sang that song... they stopped crying instantly."
Julian stood up slowly, his body trembling with an overwhelming mix of rage, love, and agonizing realization.
He stepped toward the bed, reached out his hand, and gently touched Clara’s face. His fingers traced her jawline, moving up to the hairline near her temple, where he felt a thin, faint line of scar tissue—the undeniable mark of surgical alteration.
"Elena..." Julian choked out, his voice breaking completely. "My God... Elena..."
Clara looked up at him, her green eyes wide with confusion and rising hope. "Is that... is that my name?"
Before Julian could answer, the door to the guest suite swung open.
Dr. Samuel Harrison stepped into the room, holding a silver metallic briefcase containing the mobile DNA sequencer. Behind him stood Marcus, his face unusually grim.
"Mr. Sterling," Dr. Harrison said, his tone urgent. "We’re ready to run the rapid comparative assay. I need cheek swabs from the young lady and the children. We’ll have a definitive genetic match in forty-five minutes."
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Julian didn't break eye contact with Clara. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that made Clara weep softly.
"Give him the sample, Elena," Julian whispered softly. "Let him prove to the world what my heart already knows."
