Chapter 2 Ghost In The Bloodline
The call came again that night.
Lila was halfway through Elliot’s bedtime routine when her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. The sound was small, easily missed—but she felt it anyway, a tremor running through her before the device even lit up.
She didn’t look at it.
“Mom,” Elliot said from the bathroom, toothbrush foaming at the corners of his mouth. “You forgot the blue cup.”
“I didn’t forget,” she replied, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I’m getting it.”
The phone buzzed again.
She turned the tap, filled the cup, and focused on the ordinary rhythm of the evening: rinse, spit, pajamas, story. The ritual mattered. It always had. Routine was safety. Predictability was protection.
The phone kept buzzing.
By the time Elliot was tucked into bed, the screen showed four missed calls and one unopened message. Lila sat on the edge of his mattress, smoothing the blanket up to his chest. His eyes were already heavy, lashes casting soft shadows against his cheeks.
“Can you tell the astronaut story?” he murmured.
She smiled despite herself. “Again?”
He nodded. “It’s my favorite.”
She told it quietly, her voice low and familiar, about a boy who traveled through space with only his courage and his curiosity, who learned that home wasn’t a place but a person. Elliot fell asleep before she finished, his breathing evening out, small hand curled near his chin.
Lila stayed for a moment longer, watching him.
Then she stood and closed the door gently behind her.
The apartment felt too quiet without Elliot’s presence anchoring it. She picked up her phone at last, her fingers cold against the glass.
Unknown Caller.
New Message.
She opened it.
You should have stayed gone.
Her stomach dropped.
A second message appeared almost immediately.
We know about the child.
The room tilted slightly. Lila gripped the counter, her pulse pounding hard enough that she could hear it in her ears. This wasn’t Adrian. She knew that instinctively. The tone was wrong. Too blunt. Too careless.
Adrian—Blackmoor—wouldn’t threaten. Not like this.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
Who is this?
The response came seconds later.
Someone who has been cleaning up your mess for five years.
Her breath caught.
Cleaning up.
The phrase echoed unpleasantly. Five years ago, her disappearance hadn’t been clean. She’d left behind questions. Loose ends. People who’d noticed when she stopped showing up to class, when she didn’t return messages, when she withdrew from everything too quickly.
She’d assumed those questions had eventually faded.
Apparently, they hadn’t.
Another message arrived.
You were never as invisible as you thought, Lila Hart.
She flinched at her name.
Her phone rang immediately after.
This time, she answered.
“Stop,” she said before the caller could speak. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”
A pause. Then a man’s voice, smooth and amused.
“Still defensive,” he said. “Some habits don’t die.”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me?”
“No.”
A soft chuckle. “That’s disappointing. I remember you very clearly.”
Lila closed her eyes. “If this is about money—”
“It’s not,” he cut in. “It’s about exposure.”
Her grip tightened on the phone. “I haven’t spoken to anyone.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “You only had to exist.”
She pictured the café television. Adrian’s face. The timing was too precise to be coincidence.
“You tipped him off,” she said quietly.
“Not directly,” the man replied. “But I didn’t stop it, either.”
“Why?”
“Because he deserves to know,” the voice said. “And because you never should have run.”
Anger flared, hot and sudden. “You don’t get to judge me.”
“I’m not judging,” he said calmly. “I’m warning you.”
“About what?”
There was a brief silence. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—serious now.
“They’re going to come for the boy.”
Her chest constricted. “Who is ‘they’?”
“You know exactly who,” he said. “Blackmoor’s family. His partners. The people who benefit from bloodlines and leverage.”
“I’m hanging up,” Lila said.
“That would be unwise.”
She swallowed. “You don’t scare me.”
“You should let him take control,” the man continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “You can’t protect the child on your own anymore.”
“I have been protecting him,” she snapped. “For five years.”
“And look how quickly it unraveled,” he said. “One news segment. One face on a screen.”
Her throat tightened.
“If you care about the boy,” the man finished, “you’ll stop pretending you still have a choice.”
The line went dead.
Lila stared at the phone long after the call ended. Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened screen—pale, tense, eyes too bright.
She locked the doors. Checked the windows. Pulled the curtains closed.
Sleep didn’t come easily.
Across the city, Adrian Blackmoor stood in front of a wall of glass and steel, watching the lights flicker below. The penthouse was silent except for the soft hum of the city and the faint ticking of a watch on his wrist.
“Say it again,” he said.
The man behind him cleared his throat. “The probability is extremely high,” he repeated carefully. “The child is yours.”
Adrian didn’t turn around.
“How old?”
“Five.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“And the mother?”
“Lila Hart. Former architecture student. Disappeared shortly after—”
“I remember,” Adrian said.
The room went still.
The head of security—Marcus Vale—shifted his weight. “You never mentioned her.”
Adrian exhaled slowly. He hadn’t meant to speak her name aloud. Hadn’t realized it had been waiting so close to the surface.
“She left,” he said.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. “With help.”
That caught Adrian’s attention.
He turned at last, his gaze sharp. “Explain.”
“There were irregularities,” Marcus said. “Financial nudges. Suppressed reports. Someone made sure she stayed off your radar.”
Adrian’s expression darkened.
“Who?”
Marcus hesitated. “We’re still confirming.”
Adrian walked past him, retrieving a file from the table. Inside were photographs. Surveillance shots. A woman exiting a café. A child holding her hand.
The boy looked up at the camera mid-step.
Adrian’s breath stalled.
He stared at the image, something unfamiliar stirring low in his chest. Recognition, sharp and undeniable. The same eyes. The same bone structure. The same quiet intensity.
Mine.
The thought was instinctive. Possessive.
Marcus watched him carefully. “What do you want to do?”
Adrian closed the file.
“I want access,” he said.
“And the mother?”
Adrian’s mouth curved into something cold. “She doesn’t get to disappear twice.”
He turned back to the window, the city sprawling beneath him like a map of resources waiting to be claimed.
Five years.
She had taken something from him.
He intended to take it back.
