The silence in the car on the way back to Brooklyn was deafening. Andrew's profile was like granite, his eyes fixed on the road with an intensity that didn't belong to a student or an athlete. He told me he was "security." He told me he was just doing his job.
But I'm a doctor. I'm trained to see what people try to hide. Security guards don't have that predatory, lethal aura. They don't have hands that remain perfectly still after a building goes into lockdown. And the smell—the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, bitter scent of gunpowder—was clinging to his skin like a second shadow.
"We're here," Andrew said quietly as he pulled up to the apartment complex.
I didn't move. My heart was thumping against my ribs, fueled by a mixture of fear and a desperate need for the truth. As he reached over to unlock the door, I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed his hand—the one with the bruised knuckles—and didn't let go.
"Come with me," I commanded, my voice trembling but firm.
He looked surprised for a split second, but he followed me out of the car. We climbed the stairs to his apartment in total silence, the hallway lights flickering above us.
The moment we stepped inside the apartment, I didn't head for the sofa. I spun around, grabbed the collar of his hoodie, and yanked him toward the door.
Click. I locked it and leaned my back against the wood, trapping us in the narrow entryway.
Andrew froze. We were so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. There was barely an inch of air between us. I could see the tiny gold flecks in his dark eyes and the way his jaw was clamped shut, his breath hitching as he looked down at me.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice sharp. "Really?"
"Emily, you're tired. It's been a long night. Go to bed," he said, trying to step back, but there was nowhere for him to go.
"No!" I pressed my hands against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through the fabric. "I saw you at that Gala. You weren't just a guard. You looked at those people like they were targets. And Mr. Park... he vanished right after you spoke to him. You aren't just 'Andrew Parker' the moody athlete. You're someone else."
"Emily, stop," he growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
"Tell me the truth! Why do you have scars on your back that look like they're from a fire? Why do you know how to handle a gun? Why does your life feel like a lie?" I was breathless now, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. "Who are you, Andrew?"
"You don't want to know," he hissed, his eyes flashing with a sudden, raw agony. "Knowing will change everything. It will destroy the world you think you live in."
"My world is already falling apart!" I shouted softly. "Just tell me!"
Andrew looked at me for a long time. I saw the struggle behind his eyes—the massive, iron wall he had built for twenty years was finally cracking under the weight of my gaze. He let out a long, jagged breath and slumped his shoulders, the 'Hotdog' mask finally falling away to reveal a man hollowed out by grief.
"Your father didn't build Thompson Global out of hard work, Emily," he said, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "He built it on a graveyard."
I froze. My breath hitched. "My father? What does he have to do with you?"
"Everything," Andrew said, stepping into that final inch of space until our foreheads almost touched. His eyes were boring into mine with a terrifying, absolute truth.
"I wasn't born in a Brooklyn apartment. I was born into the family that owned the empire your father now runs. I had a father who was a king of industry and a mother who was the light of my life. Until your father decided he wanted it all."
My blood turned to ice. My mind raced back to the stories of the "tragic accident" in Shanghai—the fire that killed the founders of the company.
"The fire in Shanghai wasn't an accident, Emily. It was a massacre coordinated by Benjamin Thompson. He let my parents burn so he could take the throne."
I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth. "No... that's... it can't be true."
"My name isn't Andrew Parker," he said, his voice cracking for the first time.
"My name is Oliver Thompson. And I'm the ghost your father failed to kill twenty years ago."
The world felt like it was tilting on its axis. The man I had been falling for—the man who had protected me—was the son of the people my father had murdered.
The air in the apartment turned frigid, the silence so heavy it felt like it might crush the floorboards beneath us. I looked at Andrew—no, at Oliver—and for a moment, I saw the six-year-old boy with the bright eyes I used to follow around the garden.
"Oliver..." I whispered, the name tasting like ash and old memories.
My knees buckled. I slumped against the locked door, sliding down until I hit the floor. The truth didn't just break my heart; it shattered my entire identity.
"You think you're the only ghost in this room?" I looked up at him, my vision blurred by tears. "I didn't just hear stories about that night, Oliver. I was there. I saw the flames."
Oliver froze, his hand trembling as he reached out toward me, but he stopped himself. I closed my eyes, and suddenly, I was six years old again, standing in the humid, smoky air of Shanghai.
"That morning... the sun wasn't even up yet," I began, my voice small and distant. "I had woken up early to find you. I wanted to show you a shell I found at the beach. But when I got to the hallway near your suite, I saw them. My father. My mother. They were standing by the service entrance with men I didn't recognize. Men in dark suits."
I choked back a sob. "I saw my father hand a canister to one of the men. I didn't know what it was then. But then I smelled it—the gasoline. I saw the first spark. I watched my own father lock the master suite from the outside while the smoke started to curl under the door."
Oliver's face went deathly pale. He leaned against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I screamed," I continued, the memory clawing at my throat. "But the wind swallowed it. I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I couldn't go back to them. Benjamin and Isabella... they weren't my parents anymore. They were monsters. I ran until my lungs burned and my feet bled on the Shanghai pavement."
I told him about the small noodle shop I found three miles away. I had hidden under a table, shivering and covered in soot. The owner had tried to call the police, but I begged him not to. I knew the police worked for the powerful, and my father was the most powerful man I knew.
"I remembered a number," I said, looking up at Oliver. "Arthur Rose. He was my father's head of legal, but he was more than that—he was the only man who ever truly cared for us. He and his wife, Amelia, were in Hong Kong on business. I used the shop's payphone. I told them everything. I told them I saw my father kill the Thompsons."
Oliver was shaking now, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white.
"Arthur and Amelia didn't hesitate," I whispered. "They knew Benjamin would kill me too if he knew I was a witness. They flew to Shanghai secretly, picked me up from that restaurant, and smuggled me out of the country. They changed my name. They erased my records. They became my parents because they knew the real ones were devils."
I looked at my hands—the hands of a doctor. "I spent my whole life trying to heal people, Oliver. Maybe because I couldn't save your parents. I grew up believing I was the only survivor of that fire. I thought you were gone. I mourned you for twenty years."
The weight of the revelation filled the room. We weren't just a doctor and an athlete. We were two broken children who had been running from the same fire for two decades.
Oliver slowly dropped to his knees in front of me. He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward and pressed his forehead against mine. I could feel his hot tears hitting my cheeks, mixing with my own.
"I thought I was alone," he choked out, his voice breaking into a million pieces. "Every night for twenty years, I thought I was the only one who remembered the truth."
"You aren't alone," I whispered, reaching up to cup his face. "I left that life behind. I never went back to the Thompson estate. I never took a penny of their money. I chose the Rose family because they had hearts, not bank accounts."
Oliver pulled back slightly, his eyes turning from grief to a dark, simmering resolve. "They think we're dead, Emily. Benjamin thinks he's safe. He thinks his daughter is a stranger and his nephew is a corpse."
"What are we going to do?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Oliver stood up, pulling me with him. He looked toward the window, out at the Brooklyn skyline where the shadows of the past still loomed.
"We aren't going to hide anymore," he said, his voice cold and sharp as a blade. "You have the testimony of a witness. I have the evidence from the drive. Toge