Sins Of The Father

Chapter 3: Beneath the Surface

*Sophia's POV*

Alexander's penthouse looked different in the dark. The city lights turned every surface into mirrors, reflecting us back in fragments. Broken pieces of two broken people.

He hadn't spoken during the ride. His hand still gripped my arm where he'd pulled me into the car, like he was afraid I'd disappear. Or run.

"Your father is alive," I said, breaking the silence.

His jaw tightened. "So is yours."

"Where are we going?" The elevator kept climbing, past the penthouse floor.

"Somewhere no one else knows about." He pulled out a different key card, inserted it into a hidden slot. The elevator rose three more floors, then opened into darkness.

Lights flickered on, motion-activated. We stood in a private gallery, paintings covering every wall. But these weren't the corporate art pieces from his office. These were personal. Raw. Beautiful in the way that hurt to look at.

"My father's real collection," Alexander said. "The one he hid from everyone, including me."

I walked forward, my heels echoing on marble. Each painting told a story. A woman with sad eyes and dark hair, painted over and over. She held a baby in one, stood alone in another, lay in a hospital bed in the third.

"Your mother," I whispered.

"She died when I was twelve. Cancer." His voice was carefully empty. "My father never got over it. Neither did I."

I wanted to tell him about my mom, dying slowly in that hospital bed. But the words stuck in my throat. This wasn't about connection. This was about revenge.

Wasn't it?

"Marcus said to ask about the Monet."

Alexander walked to the far wall, pressed his hand against what looked like solid marble. A panel slid back, revealing a hidden room. Inside, a single painting hung spotlit like an accusation.

Water lilies floating on dark water. Monet's signature in the corner. But I knew this painting. Everyone in the art world did.

"This burned in the Harrisburg Gallery fire twenty years ago," I breathed. "The same fire where your father..."

"Supposedly died." Alexander stood beside me, close enough that I felt his body heat. "But look at the back."

He lifted the painting carefully, revealing a date written in pencil. Two days after the fire.

"He faked his death." My mind raced. "But why?"

"That's what I've been trying to understand for five years. Ever since I found this room." He set the painting back, turned to face me. In the small space, we stood too close. I could see gold flecks in his gray eyes, a small scar on his jaw. "Your father knows why. They were business partners, but more than that. They were friends."

"Then why did my father betray yours?"

"Did he?" Alexander pulled out a folder from behind the painting. "Or did they betray someone else together?"

The documents inside were old, photocopied. Contracts, bank statements, shipping manifests. My trained eye caught the pattern immediately.

"They were moving fakes," I said. "But not just selling them. They were replacing originals in private collections with fakes, then selling the real ones overseas."

"You understand it faster than the investigators did." Something like admiration flickered in his eyes. "It took them three years to piece together what you just saw in thirty seconds."

"It's what I do. I see patterns in art, in documents, in…" I stopped, realizing I was explaining myself to him. I want him to understand me. "This doesn't explain why your father faked his death."

"No. But this might."

He handed me another document. A birth certificate. My name, but not my birthday. The date was three months earlier than I'd always believed.

"I don't understand."

"Your mother was pregnant when she married Victor. But not with his child."

The room spun. I gripped the wall, the marble cold under my palm.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" He stepped closer, and I had nowhere to go in the small space. "Haven't you ever wondered why you look nothing like him? Why did your mother never have photos of your early years? Why did she run so hard and so far?"

"Stop." The word came out as a whisper.

"Your real father's name is on that certificate. James Harrington."

The name hit like a punch. Alexander's lawyer. The silver-haired man who'd smiled at me in the lobby, who'd looked at me too long, too knowing.

"He doesn't know," Alexander continued. "Neither did I, until tonight. Until that message made me dig deeper."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Victor Ashford has been playing a longer game than any of us realized." His hand rose to my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't know had fallen. "You're not his daughter. You're his weapon. He raised you, shaped you, then let you go into the world knowing someday he'd call you back."

"For what?"

"To destroy James Harrington. The man who betrayed them both. The real reason my father had to disappear."

My phone buzzed. Another unknown number. This time, a video file. I clicked play before Alexander could stop me.

My mother's hospital room. The fake nurse standing over her bed, holding a syringe.

"You have one hour to come alone," Victor's voice said from off-camera. "Or Catherine Vale learns what happens when people lie to me for twenty years."

The video ended. I was already moving, but Alexander caught my arm.

"It's a trap."

"I don't care." I pulled free. "She's my mother."

"And he's your father. Do you really think…"

"He's not my father!" The words exploded out of me. "According to you, nobody is who they say they are. Everyone's been lying. But she's still my mother, and she's dying, and I won't let him hurt her."

Alexander stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled out his phone, typed quickly.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting us back up." He grabbed his coat, handed me a different one from the closet. Bulletproof, I realized from the weight. "If we're walking into Victor's trap, we're not going alone."

"He said…."

"I know what he said." Alexander's eyes went silver, dangerous. "But he has my father. And now he's threatening your mother. The game changes now."

We headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, Alexander's phone rang. Marcus.

"Don't come to the hospital," Marcus's voice was urgent through the speaker. "It's not just Victor. James is here too. And Alexander... he brought papers. Legal documents. About Sophia."

Alexander's face went white. "What kind of documents?"

"Marriage contracts. From twenty years ago. Father signed them." Marcus paused. "Sophia isn't just his weapon, brother. She's your wife. Has been since she was eight years old."

The elevator doors opened to the parking garage.

Standing there, surrounded by armed men, was James Harrington. My real father. Smiling like he'd just won everything.

"Hello, daughter," he said. "Time to come home.”