Chapter 17 I Was Never the "Plan"

# Chapter 17: I Was Never the "Plan"

The aftermath of Odessa's revelation transformed our wedding reception into a wake for whatever illusions still remained between us. Guests departed quickly, murmuring polite excuses while avoiding eye contact. Valencia retreated to her hotel suite, her renewed trauma evident in her trembling hands and haunted eyes. Gideon disappeared without a word, leaving only Callum and me in the vast penthouse, surrounded by half-empty champagne flutes and wilting flowers.

"You should have told me," I said finally, breaking the heavy silence. "All of it. From the beginning."

Callum stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the city lights. "Would you have believed me? Would you have accepted the truth of what the Monette legacy truly is?"

"And what is it, exactly?" I moved toward him, forcing myself to confront the architect of my life's greatest deception. "A eugenics experiment disguised as a family business?"

He turned to face me, and for the first time, I saw no calculation in his eyes—only weariness and something that might have been regret.

"It began with my grandfather," he said quietly. "After losing two sons to hereditary illness, he became obsessed with strengthening the family line. What started as careful matchmaking evolved over generations into something more... deliberate."

"Project Monarch," I supplied, remembering Odessa's words.

"Yes." He didn't deny it. "A multi-generational effort to cultivate specific traits—intelligence, ambition, resilience. The qualities needed to build and maintain an empire."

"And I was part of this plan? A carefully selected breeding specimen?" The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

"No." His response was immediate, emphatic. "You were never part of the plan, Clarette. You were the variable that changed everything."

He moved closer, and I forced myself to stand my ground, to not retreat from his approaching form.

"When Gideon brought you home, I recognized your mother's features immediately—Valencia, from a family line we had indeed selected generations ago. But you weren't supposed to exist." His voice softened. "Valencia was meant to bear my children, to strengthen the Monette genetic pool. When she fled, pregnant with another man's child, it disrupted decades of planning."

"So why bring me into the fold? Why not just let me go when Gideon and I divorced?"

"Because you proved something I had begun to suspect—that nurture could triumph over nature. That the Monette qualities I sought to breed could be developed, not just inherited." His hand reached for mine, and against my better judgment, I didn't pull away. "You achieved everything a true Monette should, without a drop of our blood. You became what decades of genetic planning failed to create."

"A worthy successor," I said, understanding dawning. "That's what this was always about. Not love. Not even desire. You needed someone to continue your work."

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"It began that way," he admitted. "But it evolved into something I hadn't anticipated. Something I hadn't felt since—"

"Since my mother," I finished for him.

"Not even with Valencia." His grip tightened on my hand. "What I feel for you transcends the plan, Clarette. It always has."

I wanted to believe him. Some desperate, foolish part of me wanted to accept that amidst all the manipulation and deceit, something genuine had grown between us. But the evidence of his calculated machinations was too overwhelming.

"How can I possibly believe you?" I asked, withdrawing my hand from his. "How can I separate truth from strategy when everything has been so carefully orchestrated?"

Before he could answer, the elevator chimed, announcing an unexpected arrival. The doors slid open to reveal a man I'd never met but recognized instantly from photographs—tall, with Callum's bearing but wilder eyes, his dark hair streaked with premature gray.

"Silas," Callum said, his voice suddenly tense. "What are you doing here?"

Silas Monette stepped into the penthouse, his movements fluid yet somehow unpredictable. His eyes—one blue, one green, that distinctive Monette heterochromia—fixed on me with unsettling intensity.

"I came to congratulate the bride," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle compared to his intense appearance. "My new stepmother. Or is it cousin? The family tree gets so tangled these days."

"How did you get out of the facility?" Callum demanded, moving subtly to position himself between Silas and me.

Silas smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "I've been out for weeks, Father. Your watchdogs aren't as vigilant as they once were. Or perhaps they've transferred their loyalty to the new regime." He nodded toward me. "She's quite something, isn't she? Not what you planned at all."

I stepped around Callum, refusing to be protected or hidden. "Silas. I've heard a lot about you."

"All terrible, I'm sure." His smile widened slightly. "The mad Monette son, locked away for the family's convenience. Did they tell you what I did to earn my exile?"

"You had a psychotic break," Callum interjected. "You attacked a board member."

"I exposed a board member," Silas corrected, his gaze never leaving mine. "Uncle Gregory was embezzling funds to cover his gambling debts. When I confronted him, he tried to buy my silence. When that failed, Father here decided I was having a 'mental health crisis' and had me committed."

I looked between them, trying to discern truth from fiction. "Why are you here, Silas?"

"To warn you." He reached into his jacket, producing a small digital recorder. "I thought you might want to hear this before you bind yourself any further to the Monette legacy."

He pressed play, and Callum's voice filled the room—younger, but unmistakable: "The child is not yours, Vivienne. She is my investment in the future. My plan."

Valencia's voice responded, tearful and desperate: "She's a baby, not a stock option! I won't let you turn her into one of your experiments!"

"She already is," Callum's recorded voice replied coldly. "The moment she was conceived."

Silas stopped the recording, his eyes now fixed on his father. "I found this in the old house, hidden in your study. There's more—hours more. Detailed logs of the 'breeding program,' genetic profiles, psychological assessments spanning generations."

I felt physically ill, my wedding ring suddenly heavy and constricting on my finger. "When was this recorded?"

"Thirty years ago," Silas answered. "Just before Valencia fled with you. Before Father rewrote history to erase his failure to secure his investment."

Callum's expression remained controlled, but I could see the calculation behind his eyes—assessing the threat, formulating his response. "That recording is taken out of context. Those were different times, different circumstances."

"Different lies," I said quietly. "But the same goal. Control."

"Not control," Callum insisted, reaching for me again. "Legacy. Continuation. Everything I've built—"

"Was built on manipulation and deceit," I finished for him. "Of your wife, your sons, and now me."

Silas watched our exchange with clinical interest. "You know what's fascinating? He actually loves you—in his damaged, twisted way. I've been observing you both for weeks. He looks at you differently than he's ever looked at anyone. Even Mother."

"That doesn't change what he's done," I said, though something in me wavered at Silas's assessment.

"Of course not," Silas agreed. "Nothing can change the past. But the future..." He smiled again, that eerie expression that didn't quite connect with his eyes. "The future is still unwritten. And you, dear stepmother, are holding the pen."

He placed the recorder on the coffee table between us. "Consider this my wedding gift. The full truth, at last."

As he turned to leave, Callum finally spoke. "Why, Silas? Why now?"

Silas paused at the elevator. "Because someone needs to break the cycle. And she's the only one strong enough to do it." His eyes met mine one last time. "Don't become him, Clarette. Destroy him instead."

After he was gone, the silence between Callum and me stretched like a chasm. I stared at the recorder, the physical embodiment of decades of lies.

"Everything," I said finally, my voice steady despite the storm within. "I want to know everything. No more strategic revelations, no more curated truths. Everything."

Callum looked suddenly old, the cancer and the weight of his secrets visibly taking their toll. "If I tell you everything, I lose you."

"You've already lost me," I replied. "The only question now is whether you lose everything else too."

His shoulders sagged slightly, the first genuine display of vulnerability I'd ever witnessed from him. "What do you want to know first?"

I picked up the recorder, my new wedding ring catching the light as I did. "Let's start with my mother. The real story this time."

As dawn broke over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of flame, I listened to Callum Monette finally tell the truth—and with each revelation, I felt myself transforming, hardening, becoming the weapon that would dismantle his empire from within.