Chapter 4 Blood Inheritance

Chapter 4: Blood Inheritance

The chess pieces were moving precisely as I had orchestrated. For three days, Ernest had been hiding in his lake house, surrounded by armed guards he'd hastily hired—men who had no idea they were facing Theodore Cantrell's illegitimate sons, men who had spent their lives nursing resentment against the family that had denied their existence.

I watched it all unfold through the security cameras I'd had installed months ago. The once-powerful Ernest Cantrell, reduced to jumping at shadows, sleeping with a gun under his pillow. The mighty had fallen, and I was there to document every moment of his descent.

"Ms. Morton," my assistant called from the doorway of my study. "Thomas's doctor is on line one."

I picked up the phone. "Dr. Reeves. How is he today?"

"Showing remarkable improvement," the doctor replied. "His blood counts are normalizing exactly as you predicted. The Cantrells are calling it a miracle."

"Excellent," I said. "Continue with the treatment protocol. I'll visit tomorrow."

I hung up and turned to my assistant. "Is everything prepared for the meeting?"

She nodded. "The brothers are assembled at the safe house. Ernest's security team reported movement at the east perimeter fifteen minutes ago."

"He took the bait," I smiled. "Time to reel him in."

---

The safe house was an elegant mansion on the outskirts of the city, isolated enough for privacy but close enough to civilization to maintain the appearance of legitimacy. I arrived just as darkness fell, my driver taking the winding driveway slowly to avoid detection.

Inside, Theodore's three illegitimate sons waited in the study—James, the oldest at forty-five, a successful surgeon with Theodore's commanding presence; Michael, forty, an investment banker with the family's shrewd business sense; and Daniel, thirty-five, a former military officer with cold eyes and precise movements.

"Gentlemen," I greeted them, accepting a glass of whiskey from Daniel. "Our guest should be arriving shortly."

James raised his glass. "To the downfall of Ernest Cantrell."

We clinked glasses just as the security system chimed, alerting us to movement at the gate.

"He's here," Michael said, checking his phone. "Camera three shows him approaching on foot. Alone."

I nodded. "Places, everyone. Remember the plan."

The brothers moved to their positions around the room as I settled into the high-backed chair behind the desk—Theodore's chair, salvaged from his first office and restored to its former glory. A symbolic throne for what was about to unfold.

When Ernest burst through the door, wild-eyed and disheveled, he froze at the sight of us. His gaze darted from brother to brother before finally settling on me.

"You," he spat. "Orchestrating my murder from my father's chair?"

I smiled. "No one's going to murder you, Ernest. At least, not tonight. We're simply having a family meeting."

"These men aren't family," he hissed, though his eyes betrayed his uncertainty as he took in their familiar features.

"DNA says otherwise," James remarked, tossing a folder onto the coffee table. "Full genetic workups. We're all Theodore's sons, with match percentages higher than yours, ironically."

Ernest ignored the folder. "What do you want? All of you?"

"Justice," Michael said simply. "Recognition. Our birthright."

"And if I refuse?"

Daniel smiled coldly. "Then we continue hunting you until one of us succeeds in eliminating the competition. Sister Ava has been quite clear about the rules."

Ernest turned to me. "Sister? You're aligning yourself with these... these strangers?"

"Half-siblings by marriage," I corrected. "We share a common goal—dismantling your world piece by piece."

Ernest laughed bitterly. "My father will never acknowledge them. The will—"

"Is right here," I interrupted, producing a sealed document from the desk drawer. "The real will. The one your father signed after a particularly guilt-ridden night three years ago, when his mistress threatened to go public about their son."

I nodded toward James, who raised his glass in mock salute.

Ernest lunged for the document, but Daniel intercepted him with military efficiency, twisting his arm behind his back.

"Careful, brother," Daniel warned. "We wouldn't want to start the elimination round prematurely."

I stood, walking around the desk to face Ernest directly. "Your father's condition has worsened. The doctors give him days, perhaps hours. When he dies, this will goes into effect—unless..."

"Unless what?" Ernest demanded, wincing as Daniel maintained his hold.

"Unless you sign over your controlling interest in Cantrell Industries to me, as Thomas's legal guardian," I said calmly. "In exchange, I ensure these three gentlemen receive generous settlements but no controlling stake in the company."

Ernest's eyes narrowed. "You want the company? After everything you've said about hating the Cantrell name?"

"I don't want the company," I replied. "I want what it represents—power over your family's legacy."

Daniel released Ernest, who straightened his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster. "And if I sign? What happens to Thomas?"

"He remains where he is, with his grandmother, until he's old enough to understand the truth. Then he decides where he wants to be."

Ernest looked around at the assembled faces—his half-brothers watching with predatory anticipation, me with cool determination.

"I need to see him first," he said finally. "Thomas. Before I sign anything."

I checked my watch. "As it happens, I'm visiting him tomorrow. You're welcome to join me—under supervision, of course."

Before Ernest could respond, the doors burst open. A security guard rushed in, his expression grave.

"Ms. Morton, there's news from the hospital. Theodore Cantrell has taken a turn for the worse. They don't expect him to last the night."

The room fell silent. Even the brothers, who had never been acknowledged by their father, seemed affected by the news.

"We should go," I said finally. "All of us. Family should be together at a time like this."

Ernest looked at me suspiciously. "Why the sudden sentimentality?"

I smiled enigmatically. "It's not sentiment, Ernest. It's strategy."

---

Theodore Cantrell's hospital room was a fortress of luxury—a private suite with security at the door, medical equipment disguised by tasteful cabinetry, and a view of the city lights that cost more per night than most people made in a month.

The old man lay connected to machines that beeped and hummed, maintaining the illusion of life in a body that was clearly ready to surrender. Miranda sat rigidly by his bedside, her perfect makeup unable to conceal her exhaustion.

She looked up as we entered, her eyes widening at the sight of our unusual procession—Ernest, myself, and the three brothers hanging back near the door.

"What is this?" she demanded, rising to her feet. "Ernest, who are these men?"

Ernest couldn't meet her gaze. "Ask him," he said, nodding toward the bed. "They're his sons."

Miranda's face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and finally, a resigned understanding. "I see," she said quietly. "And you brought them here now? While he's dying?"

"I brought them," I corrected, stepping forward. "Family should witness family milestones, don't you think? Birth, marriage, death—all those moments that shape a legacy."

Miranda's eyes hardened as she looked at me. "You have no right to be here. Not after what you've done."

"I have every right," I replied calmly. "More right than you, in fact."

Before she could respond, a small voice called from the doorway: "Daddy?"

We all turned to see Thomas standing there, a nurse hovering anxiously behind him. The boy was pale but steady on his feet—the "miracle recovery" progressing exactly as planned.

Ernest rushed to him, kneeling to embrace his son—no, his half-brother. The child clung to him, his small face confused by the tension in the room.

"Daddy, who are those men?" Thomas asked, peering around Ernest at the three brothers.

Ernest hesitated, looking to me for guidance. I gave him nothing.

"They're... family," he said finally. "They've come to see Grandfather."

Thomas broke away from Ernest and walked toward the bed, his small hand reaching for Theodore's limp one. "Is Grandfather going to heaven?"

Miranda intercepted him, pulling him close. "Yes, darling. Soon."

"Like my mommy did?" the boy asked innocently.

The room went still. Ernest looked stricken, and Miranda's face hardened into a mask.

"Yes," Miranda said, shooting me a warning glance. "Like your mommy."

I stepped forward then, kneeling to Thomas's eye level. "Hello, Thomas."

The boy regarded me curiously. "Who are you?"

"I'm—" I began, but Miranda cut me off.

"She's no one important," Miranda said sharply. "Nurse, please take Thomas back to his room."

But Thomas resisted, his eyes fixed on me with uncanny intensity. He tilted his head, studying my face.

"You look like the lady in the secret picture," he said.

Everyone froze.

"What secret picture, darling?" Miranda asked, her voice tight.

"The one Grandfather keeps in his special box," Thomas replied. "He showed me when I was sick. He said she was an angel watching over me."

I felt a strange sensation in my chest—not quite pain, not quite pleasure. Theodore had kept my picture? Shown it to Thomas?

Before I could respond, Theodore's monitors began to wail. His body convulsed once, then went still as medical staff rushed into the room.

"Code Blue!" a nurse shouted, pushing us aside. "Everyone out! Now!"

As we were ushered into the hallway, Thomas turned to look at me one last time. For a moment—just a moment—his eyes seemed to change, shifting from innocent blue to something older, colder. Something familiar.

Then he was gone, whisked away by the nurse, leaving me with a chill I couldn't explain.

An hour later, Theodore Cantrell was pronounced dead. The patriarch had fallen, and the war for his empire had officially begun.

But as I stood watching Ernest comfort a sobbing Miranda, I realized something had changed in my carefully constructed plan. Thomas—the child I had never held, the baby I had birthed in blood and pain—had recognized me. Had connected with me, however briefly.

And that was a complication I hadn't prepared for.