Chapter 8
Leaving Marcus’s office without another word, Julian descended to the ground floor and ducked into a quiet coffee shop across the street. He pulled out a burner phone he had purchased that morning, dialing a ten-digit number he hadn't used in five years.
After three rings, a gruff, familiar voice answered. “Yeah?”
“Detective Miller? It’s Julian St. Clair.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of papers shuffling. “Julian. Long time. Heard you were getting married this weekend. Shouldn’t you be on a honeymoon?”
“My wedding was a disaster, Miller, and I need a favor that isn’t going through official precinct channels,” Julian said, keeping his voice strictly professional. “I need a background check run on a private adoption agency called CradleTrust, operated out of upstate New York. And I need it yesterday.”
Miller sighed heavily over the line. “CradleTrust? That’s high-end brokerage, Julian. Usually deals with international placements and high-net-worth clients looking to bypass standard waiting periods. Why are you digging there?”
“Because the child currently in my care came through that agency via forged documents executed by my ex-fancée and her attorney,” Julian stated flatly. “If I don't find out who the biological parents are and how Elena got custody legally, I’m going to be framed for child trafficking.”
The line went silent for a moment. Miller’s tone turned sharp and serious. “Meet me at the diner on 4th and Main in forty minutes. Bring whatever physical documents you have left. Don't use your regular phone again today.”
Julian ended the call, paid for his black coffee with cash, and walked back to his car. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to form a horrifying picture. CradleTrust wasn’t just an adoption agency; it was a front for high-end asset acquisition, where babies were treated like commodities traded among the ultra-wealthy to secure inheritances and trusts. Elena hadn’t just tricked him into a wedding; she had used him as an incubator for a financial scheme designed to milk a massive generational trust fund tied to the infant’s true lineage.
Forty minutes later, sitting in a worn vinyl booth at the back of the dimly lit diner, Julian slid a manila folder containing the medical records across the sticky table to Detective Miller.
Miller flipped through the pages, his weathered face tightening with every document he read. “Damn, Julian. You walked right into a buzzsaw. This kid isn’t just an random placement. Look at this genetic marker here—this is the Sterling family lineage. One of the oldest shipping fortunes in the country.”
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Julian stared across the table, the final terrifying realization dawning on him. “The Sterlings. Elena used to work as a private curator for old man Sterling before he passed away.”
“And when he died leaving his entire estate to the first direct descendant, Elena needed a baby from that bloodline to claim the trust,” Miller concluded, tapping the table with a calloused finger. “She needed a patsy with good credit and a clean record to adopt the child legally, take the fall for the financial setup, and leave her holding the billions. And you, my friend, were the chosen groom.”
