Chapter 32:
1244 Words
Bonny’s POV
My fingers shook so badly that the first page slipped.
Adrian caught it before it fell.
Naturally.
He placed it back in front of me without comment, but his hand remained near mine for one extra second.
Steadying.
Dangerous man.
I inhaled once and forced myself to read.
The report was thick.
Too thick.
No normal childhood required this much documentation.
The first pages contained names.
My adoptive parents.
Employment histories.
Debt records.
Previous addresses.
Tax issues.
Utility defaults.
Civil disputes.
I frowned.
“They were always asking for money,” I murmured.
Vivienne lifted her glass.
“They were drowning long before you began rescuing them.”
Rescuing.
The word stung because it was true.
Every salary increase I ever had.
Every small bonus.
Every overtime payment.
They had a need for it.
Rent crisis.
Medical emergency.
School fees for a cousin.
Broken appliances.
Someone arrested.
Something stolen.
Always urgent.
Always my responsibility.
I turned another page.
Then another.
A highlighted line froze me.
No formal adoption order located in provincial records.
The letters blurred.
“What does that mean?”
My own voice sounded far away.
Vivienne answered carefully.
“It means no legal adoption file was found.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe records were lost.”
“Possible,” she said.
“Likely?” Adrian asked coldly.
She said nothing.
Which was answer enough.
I stared at the page again.
No legal adoption order.
No court approval.
No registered transfer.
Then what had I been?
A child handed over?
Sold?
Hidden?
My stomach lurched.
Adrian took the report gently from my hands and turned several pages himself.
His jaw tightened.
“Continue,” he said quietly.
I hated him for being calm.
I needed him for being calm.
So I continued.
---
There were photocopies of hospital intake notes.
My birth date.
Weight.
A note that my biological mother had experienced complications but was stable.
No father listed.
No next of kin confirmed.
Then another page.
Mother returned requesting discharge child. Child unavailable pending administrative review.
My breath stopped.
I read it again.
Then again.
“She came back.”
No one spoke.
“She came back for me.”
The sentence cracked in the middle.
Tears burned instantly.
All my life I had been told versions of the same story:
She didn’t want you.
She left you.
We took pity on you.
Be grateful.
And now—
A paper older than my memories said she had returned.
Looking for me.
I covered my mouth.
“She came back.”
Adrian’s chair scraped softly as he moved closer.
His hand settled at the base of my neck.
Warm.
Anchoring.
“She did,” he said.
I cried in a five-star restaurant.
No dignity.
No control.
No care.
---
Vivienne dismissed the staff with one glance.
No one approached our table after that.
Power had uses.
When I could breathe again, I turned another page.
There were witness notes.
A nurse statement.
She remembered a young woman crying in reception.
Asking repeatedly where her baby had been taken.
Being told to return later.
Returning again.
Then being asked to leave.
My vision swam.
“They sent her away.”
“Yes,” Vivienne said quietly.
“Because she had no leverage.”
I looked up sharply.
There was no cruelty in her face now.
Only anger.
Old anger.
Interesting.
Adrian noticed it too.
“You knew this happened often.”
Her gaze met his.
“I know how institutions treat women without money.”
That sentence held history I did not understand yet.
But I stored it.
Later.
For another day.
Right now I was trying not to break apart over a woman whose face I had never seen and who had apparently loved me enough to fight badly armed systems.
I touched the report again.
“Do we know her name?”
Vivienne hesitated.
Then slid another page toward me.
Partially redacted.
But still readable.
Mother listed as Naledi Maseko.
I stared at it.
Naledi.
Naledi.
Naledi.
A name that felt like light entering a locked room.
“My mother has a name,” I whispered.
I didn’t realize how starved I had been for that simple thing.
Not the woman who left.
Not whoever she was.
Not absence.
Naledi.
A person.
Adrian watched my face carefully.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I blinked through tears.
“That sounded rude.”
“It was encouragement.”
Vivienne sighed.
“He was difficult even as a child.”
“I was efficient.”
“You were ten.”
I laughed unexpectedly.
The sound startled all three of us.
---
More pages.
A transfer log.
Someone signed for my release.
The signature was unreadable.
No relation listed.
No authority stamp.
Cash note attached.
My blood ran cold.
“She was bought.”
“No,” Adrian said sharply.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He took the page and placed it flat.
“You were not bought.”
Then his eyes hardened.
“Someone was paid.”
The distinction mattered.
More than I expected.
I swallowed.
“My adoptive parents?”
“Possibly,” Vivienne said. “Possibly a middle party.”
“Can we prove it?”
“Eventually.”
Eventually.
I hated that word.
I wanted certainty now.
Justice now.
Answers now.
Instead I had old paper and shaking hands.
---
Lunch sat untouched and cold.
The room around us continued in polished elegance while my past bled open quietly at Table Twelve.
I leaned back, exhausted.
“If she searched for me… what happened to her?”
Neither answered immediately.
Because neither knew.
That silence terrified me more than lies.
Alive?
Dead?
Still searching?
Thinking I had rejected her somehow?
I couldn’t bear any version.
Adrian took my hand openly on the table.
No hesitation.
No concern for watchers.
“We find out.”
His certainty was dangerous medicine.
“How?”
“Money.”
I stared.
Vivienne closed her eyes briefly.
“He is unfortunately correct.”
I laughed through tears again.
“Your family solves everything with wealth.”
“No,” she said softly.
“Only the things poverty should never have prevented.”
That one sentence changed how I saw her.
Slightly.
Not fully.
But enough.
---
I slipped the pages back into the envelope with care.
These were not just records now.
They were proof.
Proof I had been loved.
Proof I had been lied to.
Proof my story had been stolen and rewritten by cruel people.
No more.
I looked at Adrian.
“I want to confront them.”
“Denied.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You are emotional, vulnerable, and likely to commit crimes with cutlery.”
Vivienne nodded approvingly.
“Sound assessment.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Temporary emotion,” Adrian said.
“Deeply rooted emotion,” I corrected.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression changed instantly.
Sharp.
Focused.
Bad.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“We have a development.”
My pulse jumped.
“What kind of development?”
He stood.
“The investigators located a current address connected to Naledi Maseko.”
My chair nearly toppled as I stood too.
“She’s alive?”
His pause lasted one second too long.
“I didn’t say that.”
- Writer
