Chapter 3 - The Blood Evidence
The private medical laboratory on the subterranean level of the Voss Estate felt like a surgical room. Stainless steel counters, glowing monitors, and a state-of-the-art DNA sequencing unit dominated the space.
It was 2:00 AM.
Dr. Marcus Thorne, Roman’s private physician and a renowned geneticist, stood near the centrifuge machine, watching the small glass vials spin.
Inside the nursery upstairs, the triplets had finally fallen asleep—but only on the condition that Pamela remained in the room. The moment she had tried to step away toward the door, all three had woken up instantly, screaming in terror. In the end, Pamela had laid down on the massive king-sized daybed in the corner of the nursery, holding all three children against her until their breathing slowed into deep, peaceful rhythm.
Now, Pamela stood in the lab downstairs, wearing a soft gray sweater provided by Roman’s housekeeper. Roman stood beside her, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in stone as he stared at the DNA analyzer.
"Results are ready, Roman," Dr. Thorne said quietly, typing a quick sequence into his terminal.
A high-definition graph appeared on the main wall monitor, followed by two side-by-side profile columns.
Dr. Thorne turned around, holding a digital tablet. His face was pale.
"I ran three independent panels," Dr. Thorne reported, his voice shaking slightly. "Comparing Pamela Hayes’s cheek swab sample with samples from Leo, Maya, and Toby."
He tapped the screen, projecting the summary percentage onto the large monitor.
PROBABILITY OF MATERNITY: 99.998%
Pamela let out a choked gasp, covering her mouth with both hands. The room seemed to spin violently around her. The paper death certificates, the cold hospital room, the fourteen months of unbearable grief—it had all been a monstrous, calculated lie.
"My babies..." Pamela whimpered, sliding back until her back hit the wall. "They stole my babies..."
Roman didn't move for a long moment. His face was an unreadable mask of absolute fury, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.
"What about Eleanor?" Roman demanded, his voice dangerously low. "Was Eleanor the biological mother?"
Dr. Thorne tapped the screen again. A second report appeared.
PROBABILITY OF MATERNITY (ELEANOR VOSS): 0.000%
"Eleanor had no genetic link to these children whatsoever," Dr. Thorne confirmed. "Furthermore, Roman... I checked the blood types. Eleanor was O-negative. The children are AB-positive. It is biologically impossible for Eleanor to have carried these children to term."
Roman stepped toward the glass counter, slamming his fist onto the stainless steel surface with a deafening CRACK. The sound echoed off the sterile walls like a gunshot.
"She lied to me," Roman hissed, his chest heaving. "For nine months, my late wife faked her medical reports. She paid off the hospital staff, she faked her ultrasound scans, and when the night came, she bought a mother's living children from a corrupted doctor!"
Pamela looked up at Roman, her grief suddenly transforming into sharp, protective anger. "Did you know? Did you have anything to do with this?"
Roman turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity.
"Miss Hayes," Roman said, stepping closer to her until he was looking down into her eyes. "I am a ruthless man. I have ruined competitors, I have bought out companies, and I have destroyed people who crossed me in business. But I do not steal children from mother's arms. I spent fourteen months believing my wife had died after giving me three miracles. I paid tens of millions of dollars to Saint Jude’s Hospital as a charitable donation in honor of their birth!"
He reached out, grabbing the digital tablet from Dr. Thorne’s hands and holding the screen in front of Pamela.
"I was used just as much as you were," Roman declared, his voice shaking with raw, undisguised passion. "Eleanor knew she couldn't conceive. She knew that according to my father’s trust agreement, if I did not produce an heir before my forty-first birthday, forty percent of the Voss Group voting shares would revert to my uncle, Arthur Voss. She was desperate. And she bought your children to secure her place in my family."
Pamela stood up straight, wiping the tears from her face. She was no longer the frightened waitress from Bella Rosa Trattoria. The truth had ignited something primal inside her.
"Where is Dr. Harold Vance?" Pamela asked, her voice cold and steady. "The doctor who signed those death certificates."
Roman smiled—a sharp, deadly smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Vance is currently the Chief Medical Officer at Saint Jude’s," Roman answered. "He lives in a five-million-dollar mansion in Highland Park. A mansion he purchased fourteen months ago... with cash."
Roman turned to his chief of security, who was standing quietly near the door.
"Vance," Roman commanded. "Bring Dr. Harold Vance to my office. Do not involve the police yet. I want him in front of me before sunrise."
"Yes, Mr. Voss," Vance replied, stepping out immediately.
May you like
Roman turned back to Pamela. "You are not leaving this house, Pamela. Your children are upstairs. They know who you are, and I will not tear them away from you again. But tomorrow, a war begins. My uncle Arthur, the board of Saint Jude’s, and everyone who touched this crime will try to cover their tracks."
Pamela looked Roman dead in the eye. "Then let's destroy them."
