Chapter 3 - Ghosts of the Past
The crystal chandelier overhead seemed to hum with a discordant frequency as Ethan gripped the back of the empty chair to steady his trembling frame. His knuckles aressed the mahogany wood so hard they threatened to split. The man standing before him—breathing, blinking, undeniable—was supposed to be buried beneath six feet of imported granite in a private family plot three states away.
"How?" Ethan choked out, his voice stripped of its earlier arrogance, leaving behind only raw, bleeding vulnerability. "I stood at your grave. I read the eulogy."
The older man, Arthur Vance, offered a sad, heavy-lidded smile that didn't reach his tired eyes. "Sometimes, Ethan, a man has to disappear to protect the people he loves from the monsters he invited into his business. But I never stopped watching over this family. Not for a single day."
Clara stepped in front of Ethan protectively, her green dress rustling sharply. "That doesn't give you the right to waltz back in here like nothing happened. You destroyed his childhood, his trust, and now you're showing up with a child? Who does this boy belong to?"
Arthur looked at Clara with a calm, unbothered dignity. "He belongs to the Vance bloodline, young lady. Just like Ethan does."
Sarah finally stood up from her chair, smoothing the fabric of her light blue dress. She looked at Ethan with an expression that combined deep sorrow with unspoken exhaustion. "I found him six months ago, Ethan. When I was doing the archive research for the foundation. He reached out to me because he knew I was the only one smart enough—or stubborn enough—to uncover the truth."
Ethan stared at Sarah, betrayal washing over him in a cold wave. "You knew? You knew this man was alive and you kept it from me while we were planning this dinner?"
"I found out yesterday!" Sarah snapped back, her restrained facade finally cracking just a fraction. "I didn't know how to tell you without breaking your world apart. But look at the boy, Ethan. Look at his face."
Ethan looked down. The little boy in the beige suit was staring up at him with unblinking curiosity, holding out a small, crumpled drawing of a jet fighter.
"I drew that for my uncle," the boy piped up, his voice piping and innocent. "Mom said you like airplanes."
May you like
Ethan’s breath hitched in his chest, a strange, terrifying warmth blooming painfully around his heart.
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