DYLAN
The drive is quiet, but not tense.
Dylan's hand never leaves mine. His thumb traces slow, grounding strokes across my knuckles as the black car winds through familiar roads, passing fading signs, old fences, and the rust-colored gate of my childhood.
I haven't been back in months.
But nothing has changed.
The small living room carries the scent of old books, dried herbs, and lemon polish. It's the kind of place that holds stories in the walls — stories I've heard, and others I never knew I needed to.
Dylan shifts beside me on the couch, sitting up straight but not stiff. He looks handsome in dark slacks and a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the expensive watch at his wrist. But more than that, there's a softness in his eyes that settles me — even now.
Nana narrows her gaze at him, examining him like a jeweler studying a stone for flaws. "So, you're the famous Mr. Voss."
"Ma'am," Dylan says smoothly, rising to hand her a beautiful velvet box. "I brought you something. These are Dutch imperial tulips. Not easy to find this time of year, but you said once — in an interview Hermione showed me — that you loved rare things."
Nana arches an eyebrow but accepts the flowers with the faintest smile. "Hmph. I said that twenty years ago."
"You haven't changed," Dylan says.
"You're full of charm, I see."
"Only when it matters," he replies, with a look in my direction.
Pops chuckles from his worn armchair, legs crossed, cane resting on the floor. "And what do you do, young man? Besides buy overpriced flowers and drive our granddaughter around in black cars?"
"I'm the CEO of Voss Enterprises, sir."
"Ah," Pops nods, unimpressed. "Big job."
"Big enough," Dylan says. "But not bigger than her."
Nana's eyes flick to mine. "And how long has this been going on?"
I smile nervously. "Not long. But… it's real."
"Real enough to make her move into your penthouse?" Nana asks sharply.
Dylan doesn't flinch. "There's been a threat against her. A serious one. That's the real reason I asked to come today. I wanted to tell you everything — out of respect. And I hoped you could help us."
Pops leans forward. "Threat?"
"Anonymous. Violent. Someone who knows too much about Hermione to be a stranger," Dylan says, his tone grim. "My security team is handling it, but I've taken every measure to keep her safe."
He pauses, glancing at me for permission. I nod.
"I also did a private investigation before I offered her the job at my company — and long before this became personal. I looked into her background."
Nana's expression tightens, but before she can snap, I interject.
"I knew. I always knew he looked into me. It's how he operates. I didn't mind."
Pops looks between us. "And you think this threat is connected to her past?"
Dylan nods. "I do. Which brings me to the reason we're here. There are things in Hermione's file that didn't make sense. People… missing. I was hoping you might tell us more about her adoption — what really happened that day."
The air thickens.
Nana sets the tulips on the table with care and leans back. "That day…"
Pops places his hand over hers gently. "It's time, love."
Nana's voice softens. "We never told her everything. Your parents wanted to, one day, but… then the accident happened."
I reach for Dylan's hand. He laces our fingers together, firm and warm.
"You were never meant to be theirs — not at first," Nana begins. "They'd planned to adopt an eight-year-old girl, abandoned by her American parents who came to Nigeria under the lie of vacation. Left her at the orphanage and flew back without her."
I frown. "That's awful. What happened to her?"
"She was adopted later, but not by your parents. I'll get to that," Nana says. "But the day your mom and dad went to sign the papers… they saw someone outside. A young girl. Sixteen. Pregnant. Terrified. Waiting with the matron for a cab that wasn't coming."
"She was your biological mother."
Dylan's arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
"They didn't hesitate. Took her to the hospital. She was already bleeding, Hermione. Too much. The doctors said it was placenta previa — a dangerous condition when the placenta covers the cervix. She was also severely anemic. Her body was failing. They told her the truth: only one of you could be saved."
I cover my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
"She didn't think twice. She looked your mother — your adoptive mother — in the eye and said, 'Save her. Please. If I don't make it, take her away from here. Promise me.'"
Nana pauses, swallowing thickly. "She died minutes later. And you… you were perfect. Screaming, alive, hers. And theirs."
I sob, clutching Dylan's shirt as his hand strokes my back.
"They left the orphanage with you that same day. The other girl, the eight-year-old… her name was Niah. She was adopted months later by another couple. Your parents checked."
Dylan stiffens.
I look up at him, startled. "You recognize the name?"
He nods, his face unreadable. "It might be the missing piece."
"Do you think she's the one who—?"
"I don't know yet," he whispers, brushing his lips over my temple. "But I will find out."
Pops rises slowly. "Hermione, your mother made a promise. And she kept it. We've loved you every single day since. Don't let anyone tell you you weren't meant to have the life you have."
"I just wish I could tell her thank you," I whisper.
Nana presses her cane into the floor and walks over, kissing the top of my head. "She knew. You've lived well. That's thanks enough."
Dylan pulls me gently into his lap, letting me melt into his chest. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent — cedar and something sharp like dark amber.
"We'll get answers," he murmurs. "But not at the cost of your peace."
"I trust you," I whisper.
And in that moment, I do — fully, deeply, terrifyingly.