The Legitimate Heir

Chapter two

"Where is my son?"

Catherine's voice cracks across the emergency lobby like a whip. The receptionist freezes with the phone halfway to her ear. Behind Catherine, Raymond Wellington strides through the glass doors with a coat thrown over his pajamas, and every head in the room turns. A nurse drops her clipboard. Someone whispers, "Is that the Raymond Wellington?" and the security guard stands straighter than he has all night.

"Madam, please," the receptionist stammers. "Alexander was brought in at midnight. He's in the ICU. Only doctors are allowed inside."

"I am his mother." Catherine slams her palm on the counter. Her pearls are gone and her hair is a mess, but her eyes burn as sharp as ever. "I will see him. Now."

"I'm sorry, but..."

"Listen to me carefully." Her voice drops to a whisper that is somehow worse than shouting. "If anything happens to my son tonight, I will tear this hospital apart. Every doctor, every nurse, every one of you will answer for it. Do you understand?"

The receptionist nods so fast her glasses slip. "Yes, ma'am. I'll tell the doctor you're here."

Raymond places a hand on Catherine's back, and it trembles. "Come away. Let them work."

They pace. Catherine walks the length of the corridor, turns at the wall, and walks back, her bare heels slapping the cold floor. Raymond stands at the window watching the rain smear the parking lot lights, his jaw locked so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. Down the hall, two nurses whisper behind a station, then go silent when he glances their way. A young intern carrying a tray of coffee takes one look at him and turns around. Nobody dares breathe too loud.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Catherine stops in front of the double doors marked ICU and rests her forehead against the glass. "He hates hospitals," she whispers. "When he was six and broke his arm, he made me promise never to leave. I promised." Her shoulders shake. "Where am I now, Raymond? Standing outside."

Raymond opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He pulls her into his chest instead, and she cries into his coat, quietly, the way a woman cries when she has forgotten how to be loud. Over her head, he stares at the doors and thinks of every party he skipped, every time he shouted at the boy to grow up.

The doors burst open and a tall doctor in green scrubs steps out, his mask hanging at his neck. His name tag says *Dr. Adams.*

"Doctor!" Catherine breaks away so fast she nearly trips. "My son. Is he alive? Tell me he's alive."

"He's alive, Mrs. Wellington." The doctor lifts both hands. "We've stabilized him. The bleeding in his head has stopped, and his heart is steady for now."

A sob tears out of her. Raymond grips the wall.

"But there is a problem," Dr. Adams goes on. "He lost a great deal of blood. He needs a transfusion right now, or the damage to his organs could become permanent."

"Take mine," Raymond says at once. He is already rolling up his sleeve. "Whatever you need."

"Raymond..." Catherine begins.

"He's my son." His voice is iron. "Where do I go?"

“ This way sir” Dr Adams says gesturing towards the lab.

The lab smells of alcohol and cold metal. Raymond sits in a plastic chair, jaw tight, while a technician ties a band around his arm and pricks his finger. A drop of red falls onto a glass slide. Dr. Adams places a second drop beside it, taken from a small tube labeled *A. Wellington.* Raymond watches the slides like a man watching a bomb.

A few minutes pass and Dr. Adams frowns. He tilts the slide under the light, then reaches for another vial and tries again. The silence stretches until Raymond can't stand it.

"Well? Is it a match?"

"No." The doctor sets the slide down slowly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wellington. Your blood can't be given to him."

"That's impossible." Raymond lets out a short, strange laugh. "Test it again. I'm his father."

Dr. Adams does. Then he checks the chart, and the room feels colder. "Your blood type is AB. Alexander's is O." He chooses his words like a man crossing thin ice. "A parent with type AB cannot have a child with type O. Are you sure you're his biological father? Or is he adopted?"

"I am his father!" The words come out too loud. "I held him the day he was born. There must be a mistake in your lab."

"Then I hope it's a mistake." The doctor lowers his voice. "But I can't wait. We'll use blood from the hospital bank. He needs it now."

"Then do it. Go." Raymond's hand shakes as he rolls down his sleeve.

In the corridor, Catherine rushes to him. "Well?"

"Not a match. They're using the blood bank." He says it flat, without meeting her eyes but she is too tired to notice.

Two hours later, a nurse waves them inside. Alexander lies pale against white sheets, a bandage wrapped around his head, a tube taped to his arm, but the monitor beats slow and steady. Catherine drops into the chair beside him and holds his hand in both of hers. "My baby," she whispers. Tears slide down her face and fall onto his knuckles. "You scared me. Don't ever do that again. Get well, my love. Please, get well."

Raymond stands at the foot of the bed. He studies his son's face: the nose, the jaw, the shape of the eyes. He is searching for himself, and he finds nothing. His stomach turns.

"Dr. Adams." He steps into the hall, his voice low and flat. "A word. Alone."

The doctor follows. "Sir?"

"I've been thinking of what you said earlier and I want you to run a DNA test. Me and Alexander. My wife should know nothing about this, and she won't until I say so."

"Mr. Wellington, are you sure you want..."

"Did I ask your opinion?" Raymond's eyes harden. "Name your price."

"It's not about money, sir." The doctor swallows. "Twenty-four hours. I'll bring you the result myself."

A cotton swab scrapes the inside of Raymond's cheek. He doesn't flinch.

Twenty-four hours later, Raymond sits alone in his car in the hospital parking lot. A white envelope rests on his knee, and he has been staring at it for ten minutes. At last his thumb slides under the flap. The paper shakes in his hand. Two columns of numbers, and at the bottom, one line in black ink:

Probability of paternity: 0%.

He reads it again. The words do not change.

"Zero," he whispers, the words refusing to sink in "No. No, no, no."

He presses the paper to his chest. His breath comes short. Thirty-two years of marriage. Twenty-five years of birthdays, school plays, and sleepless nights. Every dream he ever had about leaving his empire to his son.

A knock on the window makes him jump. Catherine stands outside under an umbrella, a cup of coffee in her hand, smiling softly.

"There you are. The nurse says Alexander is awake. He's asking for his father."

Raymond folds the paper slowly and tucks it inside his coat. He opens the door and steps out. Catherine reaches up and straightens his collar, the way she has done a thousand times.

"Is something wrong?"

He looks into his wife's face, into those loving, tired eyes, and for the first time in his life he doesn't believe a single thing they say.

"No," he says. "Nothing at all."

But one question burns through h

is chest like fire: if Alexander is not his son, then whose is he? And how long has Catherine known?