Chapter 4

The clean sheets of the clinic bed felt like a cage. For two days, Eloise had been poked, prodded, and fed. It was a sterile, quiet existence, but it was not freedom. She was a specimen, a curiosity. She knew they were waiting for something. A name. A story. A DNA result.

She didn't want to give them one. What was the point? The only person she had wanted to see had already condemned her.

On the third morning, the television in her room was on, tuned to a morning news program. A cheerful anchor was discussing the city's most anticipated social event.

"...and the wedding of the year is just around the corner! Conway Corporation CEO Brigham Conway and heiress Eve Mathews are set to tie the knot this Saturday in a lavish ceremony at St. Patrick's Cathedral."

A picture of Brigham and Eve filled the screen. They were smiling, radiant. He was looking at Eve with an expression of pure adoration. The same way he used to look at her.

The camera zoomed in on a pre-recorded interview clip. Eve was holding Brigham's hand, her diamond engagement ring sparkling.

"He's my rock," Eve said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "After everything I've been through, finding my real family, finding Brigham... it's a dream come true."

Brigham squeezed her hand. "She's the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't wait to make her my wife."

The words hit Eloise like a physical force. She felt the air leave her lungs. It was final. The last ember of hope she didn't even know she was still holding was extinguished.

He loved Eve. He was going to marry her. Her own story, her suffering, her entire existence, was irrelevant. An old chapter in a book he had long since closed.

She had to get out.

She waited until the nurse left her breakfast tray. Her body was weak, but her will was a cold, hard thing inside her. She slid out of bed, her bare feet silent on the tiled floor. The clothes they had given her-a simple cotton gown-were all she had.

She didn't care.

She slipped out of the room and into the quiet hallway. There was no guard, just a nurses' station at the far end. She moved in the opposite direction, toward a service exit she had noticed earlier.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic, painful rhythm. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat. But no one stopped her. No one even noticed the silent, shuffling figure in the hospital gown.

She pushed open the heavy door to the service stairs and slipped through. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her escape. She descended the concrete stairs, her bare feet cold, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Outside, the city air was cool and crisp. It felt real. She was no longer a patient, a Jane Doe. She was just another lost soul on the streets of New York.

She walked without a destination, letting her feet carry her. She walked past parks where she had played as a child, past restaurants where she and Brigham had shared secret dinners, past the theater where he had first kissed her. The city was a museum of her dead life.

Eventually, she found herself walking east, toward the river. The iconic shape of the Brooklyn Bridge rose up before her, a dark lace against the morning sky.

She knew what she had to do.

She walked up the pedestrian ramp, joining the tourists and joggers. No one gave her a second look. She was invisible.

She found a spot halfway across the bridge, the wind whipping her thin gown around her legs. She looked down at the dark, churning water of the East River. It looked cold and final.

She climbed over the safety railing, her movements clumsy but determined. She stood on the narrow ledge, her back pressed against the cold steel of the bridge. The city skyline glittered before her. It was beautiful. A beautiful, cruel city that had built her up and then chewed her up and spit her out.

All the pain, the humiliation, the terror... it began to feel distant. The memory of Brigham's face in the alley, his eyes full of disgust, was the last thing to fade.

There was no more hope. There was no more fight. There was only this. A fall. An ending.

"I'm sorry, Brigham," she thought, not with forgiveness, but with a profound, weary sadness. "I'm sorry I wasn't enough."

She closed her eyes and let go.

---

At the exact moment Eloise fell, Dr. Alan was staring at two reports on his desk. One was a copy of the original DNA test from two years ago, the one that had named Eve Mathews as Denton Conway's daughter. The other was the one he had just received from the lab.

He read it once. Then a second time. His hands began to shake.

It was impossible.

He checked the sample numbers, the lab protocols. Everything was correct. There was no mistake.

The original test had been a fraud. A complete fabrication.

The DNA of the scarred, mute woman in his clinic was a near-perfect match to Denton Conway. The probability of her being his biological daughter was 99.999%.

He picked up the phone, his fingers fumbling with the keypad. He had to call Brigham Conway. Now.

"Mr. Conway's office." It was Mark's voice.

"It's Dr. Alan. Put him on. It's an emergency."

A moment later, Brigham's voice came on the line, sharp and impatient. "What is it?"

"The DNA results are in," Dr. Alan said, his voice trembling. "The original test... it was faked. The woman we have here... she's the one. She's Eloise. She's your father's daughter."

The silence on the other end was absolute.

Dr. Alan took a deep breath. "Mr. Conway? Are you there?"

The only sound was the clatter of a phone hitting a desk, followed by a heavy, sickening thud.