Veil Of Vengeance

Chapter Two

After he leaves, I try to focus on equations and formulas, but Rosie's desperate eyes keep invading my concentration. By eleven, I give up and decide to check on her, rules be damned.

Her room is empty, bed untouched. Panic rises in my throat as I call her phone. Straight to voicemail.

I race back to my room, already knowing what I'll find. My spare key hidden in a hollowed-out physics textbook where I thought no one would look is gone. So is my wallet.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Unknown Number: Sorry about taking your car. I'll bring it back tomorrow. Don't tell Roman.

Fuck. f**k.

I call her again. Nothing. I text, threatening to call her parents, campus security, the police anything to make her turn around. No response.

At midnight, my phone finally rings. My hands shake as I answer, ready to unleash hell on her.

"Athena Horace?" A deep, unfamiliar voice.

My blood turns to ice. "Yes?"

"This is Officer Collins with the State Police. I'm calling about an accident on Route 23."

The room tilts sideways. I sink onto my bed, already knowing what comes next.

"There's been a crash involving a 2012 Honda Civic registered in your name."

"Is she..." My voice breaks. "The driver. Is she okay?"

A pause. The kind that stretches between heartbeats and changes lives forever.

"I'm very sorry to inform you..."

I don't hear the rest. The phone slips from my fingers as Roman appears in my doorway, his face already crumpling as he reads the truth in mine.

"No," he whispers. "Athena, no."

I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Roman crosses the room in two strides and pulls me against him. We sink to the floor together, his tears hot against my neck.

"She took my car," I finally manage. "She was going to see Lucien."

"Why?" His voice breaks. "Why would she?"

I close my eyes, the secret burning inside me. A secret that died with Rosie on a dark mountain road. "She was pregnant."

Roman goes still against me, his breathing suspended. Then a sound escapes him something primal, anguished, a sound I'll hear in nightmares for years to come.

Outside my window, rain begins to fall, washing away tire tracks and blood and all evidence of golden, perfect Rosie. But some stains, I already know, will never come clean.

And somewhere in the Catskills, Lucien Dumas sleeps peacefully, unaware that his world is about to burn.

Because while Rosie may have made me swear to keep her secret, she extracted no such promise about what would happen after.

Some oaths are written in blood.

They say identifying a body is the hardest part. They're wrong. The hardest part is what comes after the breathing, the existing, the continuing when someone else has stopped.

The morgue smells like industrial cleaner and something underneath that no amount of chemicals can disguise. Death has its own perfume, metallic and sweet. I'll never forget it.

"Ms. Horace?" The medical examiner's voice is gentle, practiced. He's done this before. "Are you ready?"

No. I'll never be ready.

I nod anyway.

The sheet pulls back with a whisper. And there she is. Golden Rosie, perfect Rosie, eternally eighteen Rosie except there's nothing golden or perfect about her now. Her face is intact, a small mercy amid catastrophe. She looks like she's sleeping, if you ignore the unnatural stillness, the waxy pallor that no amount of expensive foundation could ever mimic.

"Is this Rosalie Elizabeth Dario?" The examiner asks, following protocol.

My voice comes from somewhere outside myself. "Yes."

Roman's hand finds mine, squeezes so hard it hurts. I welcome the pain. It's the only thing anchoring me to reality.

"I need a moment," Roman whispers, voice cracking.

The examiner nods sympathetically. "Of course. I'll be just outside."

When the door closes, Roman breaks. His body folds over his sister's, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I stand frozen, watching the twins' final reunion. One alive, one dead. The symmetry they shared in life, shattered.

"Why didn't she tell me?" Roman's words are muffled against the sheet. "I could have helped her."

The secret burns inside me like acid. I'd promised Rosie. But Rosie is gone, and Roman deserves to know.

"She was pregnant."

He lifts his head slowly, eyes red-rimmed and disbelieving. "What?"

"That's why she took my car. She was going to confront Lucien." The words taste bitter. "She thought he'd... I don't know. Step up, I guess."

Roman stares at me, then back at his sister. "How far along?"

"I don't know. She just told me that night. Said she'd taken three tests."

A knock interrupts us. The examiner returns with a woman in scrubs. Her serious expression has something more which compels my skin to burn with unease.

Dr. Patel introduced himself saying "Mr. Dario and Ms. Horace this is Dr. Patel." She delays before selecting each word meticulously. "There's something you should know. Our health care providers discovered Ms. Dario was twenty weeks pregnant during her admission.

The room tilts sideways. "Twenty weeks?" My voice sounds distant, hollow. "That's... five months."

Five months. Not days. Not weeks. Months. Rosie had been hiding this for months.

Dr. Patel nods. "Given the gestational age, we performed an emergency C-section. The baby a girl is extremely premature but stable. She's in the NICU."

The world stops spinning. Restarts. Stops again.

Roman makes a sound half gasp, half sob. "The baby's alive?"

"Yes. She's very small, just under a pound, and will need significant medical intervention. But she's fighting."

Fighting. Like her mother never did. Rosie always took the easy way out, right until her final drive. The thought is cruel, but grief isn't known for its kindness.

"Does our father know?" Roman asks.

"Your parents have been notified about the accident but not about the child. We wanted to confirm identity first, and " Dr. Patel looks uncomfortable. "Hospital policy in sensitive situations is to speak with next of kin."

Next of kin. As if Malcolm and Vivian Dario would claim anything that might tarnish their precious reputation. A scandal wrapped in a tragedy their worst nightmare.

"Can we see her?" I hear myself asking.

Dr. Patel's eyes soften. "Of course."

The NICU exists in a different dimension from the rest of the hospital. Hushed voices, soft beeping, an atmosphere heavy with both desperation and hope. We scrub our hands raw before they allow us in, then don sterile gowns.

"She's here." The nurse leads us to a clear box that looks more like a spacecraft than a crib. Inside, connected to more tubes and wires than seems possible, lies something barely recognizable as human.

Rosie's daughter is translucent, her skin tissue-paper thin. I can see blue veins mapping her entire body, her chest rising and falling with mechanical assistance. She's the size of my hand.

"She's so small," Roman whispers, pressing a palm against the incubator as if he could reach through and touch her.

"She's a fighter," the nurse says, repeating Dr. Patel's assessment. "Preemies this age face significant challenges, but her vitals are surprisingly strong."

Strong. Like she's determined to exist despite everything. I feel something c***k inside me a fissure splitting open to reveal something raw and unfamiliar. Not quite maternal, but fiercely protective.

"Does she have a name?" the nurse asks gently.

Roman and I exchange glances. Rosie didn't even tell me she was pregnant until the end she certainly never mentioned names.

"Not yet," Roman says quietly.

The nurse nods, understanding. "Take your time. For now, we're calling her Baby Girl Dario."

Baby Girl Dario. A placeholder for a life barely begun. Five months hidden inside Rosie, now forcibly extracted into a world she wasn't ready to meet.

We stay until visiting hours end, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, memorizing every translucent feature. Neither of us speaks. There's nothing to say that wouldn't collapse under the weight of what we've lost and what we've unexpectedly found.

The Dario estate looks exactly the same, which seems impossible. Shouldn't catastrophe leave visible marks? The manicured lawns, the gleaming windows, the precise symmetry of the architecture all unchanged while our lives have shattered beyond recognition.

Malcolm and Vivian are waiting in the grand foyer when we arrive home from the hospital. They stand unnaturally straight, grief packaged into socially acceptable postures.

"Roman." Vivian steps forward to embrace her son. Her eyes are dry but rimmed with red. She's been crying in private, as befits a woman of her station.

Malcolm remains where he is, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze slides to me, cold as January steel. "Athena."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Three years in this house and he still looks at me like I'm something the cat dragged in.

"The hospital called." Malcolm's voice is controlled, precise. "About the... accident and the complication."

The complication. As if his granddaughter is an inconvenient footnote.

"She's stable," Roman says. "They think she has a good chance."

Vivian makes a small, distressed sound. "This is a private matter. We'll need to handle it discreetly."

Something ugly coils in my stomach. "Handle what, exactly?"

Malcolm's eyes narrow. "The child will be placed for adoption, of course. Quietly, through our family attorney."

Roman stiffens beside me. "That's my niece you're talking about."

"A niece conceived in disgrace," Malcolm counters. "Do you have any idea what this will do to our name if it gets out? Rosalie pregnant at eighteen by that Dumas boy? The press would have a field day."

Even in death, Rosie's value to her father remains tied to appearances.

"She needs her family," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.

Malcolm's laugh is short, dismissive. "She needs parents. Real ones, not a wayward single mother and… " He pauses, gaze sliding over me. "Well."

The implication hangs in the air. Not you. Never you.

"We've already contacted Lawrence about the arrangements," Vivian adds, as if the matter is settled.

"Did either of you even ask how it happened?" The question erupts from me, sharp and accusatory.

Vivian blinks, taken aback. "The police said it was an accident. She lost control on the curve."

"And why was she on that curve at midnight? Heading to the Catskills? Five months pregnant?" Each question lands like a blow. "Did you ever wonder why your perfect daughter needed to borrow my car instead of using one of hers?"

Malcolm's face darkens. "Mind your tone, young lady. Your car wouldn't have been available to her if you'd been responsible enough to"

"To what?" I step forward, fury rising. "To babysit your adult daughter? To be her keeper when you were too busy with galas and board meetings to notice she was five months pregnant?"

"Athena," Roman warns quietly, but I'm beyond stopping.

"She came to me terrified and alone because she knew you'd react exactly like this! More concerned with your precious reputation than your own daughter!"

Malcolm's face flushes red. "You ungrateful little"

"That's enough!" Roman's voice cracks like a whip. "Our sister is dead. Her daughter your granddaughter is fighting for her life. And all you can think about is how it looks?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Vivian shifts uncomfortably, her perfectly manicured hands twisting her wedding ring.

"Roman, darling," she begins, placating. "You're upset. We all are. But we must be practical—"

"Practical?" Roman laughs, a hollow sound. "Like when you were practical about adopting Athena? A good tax write-off and excellent PR for the foundation, wasn't that what you said?"

I freeze. Three years of wondering why they chose me, and now the truth slips out in the midst of grief.

Vivian shows a small amount of respect through her shame. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." Roman's voice breaks. "Rosie's dead.