Clara was that match. Her blood cord had been tested at birth.
Tessa hadn’t just stolen my daughter to remove a “complication” from our upcoming marriage. She had stolen Clara to use her as a biological supply chain. A spare parts bank for her father. The medical notes detailed a horrifying schedule of continuous, agonizing extractions planned for a child not even a year old.
A piece of paper slipped from the back of the file. It was a flight manifest for a private Whitmore jet departing from Nashville International’s private tarmac to Zurich.
Passenger 1: Grant Whitmore.
Passenger 2: Tessa Whitmore.
Cargo: Medical Dependent (C. Bellamy).
I checked my watch. The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and hollow. The flight wasn’t scheduled for tomorrow, or next week.
Departure time was 11:30 PM. Tonight.
It was currently 7:45 PM. The annual Whitmore-Bellamy corporate merger dinner—the crown jewel of our social calendar—started at 8:00 PM. They were going to smile for the cameras, toast to our future, and then slip away to the airstrip to harvest my daughter’s marrow.
