Chapter 2 - The Greyhound Ghost
Julian didn't look back as Victoria’s furious shrieks echoed off the cathedral vaulting. Stripping off his drenched tuxedo jacket, he threw it around Lucy’s shivering shoulders, lifting her into his arms. The child was impossibly light, like a sparrow caught in a gale. Outside, the rain came down in silver sheets, blurring the line of limousines parked along the curb.
He didn't wait for his driver. Sprinting down the granite steps, Julian bypassed the waiting Maybach and hijacked an idling taxi near the intersection. ""Grand Central bus depot,"" Julian barked, slamming the door shut behind them. ""Step on it!""
Lucy curled against the cracked vinyl seat, clutching her damp Manila folder to her chest like armor. Julian stared at her, seeing ghost shadows in every contour of her face—the slope of her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled into tiny fists. Olivia’s legacy breathed beside him, alive and real, when he had spent nearly a decade believing she was dust in a mausoleum.
""Why didn't she come to me sooner?"" Julian asked, his voice raw, struggling to comprehend the depth of the betrayal that had swallowed his life.
Lucy looked out the window, watching the rain streak the neon signs of Manhattan. ""Aunt Victoria told Mom that if she ever called you, your father would pull his funding from the pediatric hospital where my little brother was being treated.""
Julian froze. ""Little brother?""
""Leo,"" Lucy whispered, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. ""He didn't make it. He was only four months old. Mom said after he died, she didn't have the strength to fight a billionaire family. But last week, Mom got sick again. The cough wouldn't stop, and she said she couldn't leave me alone in the world.""
Julian felt a hot surge of rage and bile rise in his throat. Victoria had not merely lied; she had weaponized grief, isolation, and infant mortality to keep them apart.
The cab screeched to a halt outside the grimy facade of the terminal. Neon flickered through steam vents, illuminating puddles of diesel fuel and slush. Julian tossed a hundred-dollar bill at the partition and pulled Lucy out into the downpour.
Inside the terminal, beneath the crackling announcements and dim fluorescent tubes, rows of tired travelers sat slumped on plastic seats. Lucy suddenly gasped, gripping his wrist with astonishing strength.
May you like
""There!"" she pointed toward the far luggage lockers.
A frail woman in an oversized beige coat sat hunched on a bench, a knitted scarf wrapped around her neck. Her skin was translucent, her dark hair tangled and damp. But as Julian took a tentative step forward, his heart catching in his throat, two broad-shouldered men in dark trench coats stepped smoothly out of the crowd, flanking the woman from either side. One of them pressed something hard into her ribs.
