The fall of Robert Hayes wasn't a quiet collapse; it was a televised
avalanche. News helicopters hovered over the estate as he was led out in
handcuffs, his face a mask of defiant fury, shouting about conspiracies and
betrayed confidences. The footage played on a loop, the final act of a
dynasty's disgrace.
In a private members' club high above the financial district, Julian
Cohen watched the broadcast on a muted screen. His usual composure was a
cracked vase. He held a glass of neat Scotch, the ice long melted, his knuckles
white around the crystal. His eyes weren't fixed on Robert's ravings, but on
the brief glimpse of Elara, standing beside Silas on the periphery, her
expression unreadable.
"Ask Julian who his real mother is!"
Robert's last public scream, caught by a stray microphone, was not part
of the main broadcast, but it was already a poisonous whisper in the right (or
wrong) circles. Julian had heard it. He'd heard how the madman's voice broke on
the word "real."
"Sir?"
His assistant, a young man named Gideon, stood hesitant in the doorway.
"The calls from the board are increasing. They're asking for a statement
regarding our 'historical ties' to the Hayes… situation."
Julian didn't turn. "Issue the prepared statement. 'Cohen Holdings
severed all operational ties with Robert Hayes and his interests years ago. We
are observing these developments with the same concern as the public and have
no further comment.'"
"They'll want more."
"They'll get nothing," Julian said, his voice dangerously soft. He
finally turned. The calm was back, but it was thin, stretched taut over
something raw. "Cancel my remaining appointments for the week. I'll be at the
family estate."
Gideon nodded and withdrew. Alone, Julian threw the Scotch back, the
burn doing nothing to cauterise the cold fear in his gut. Robert hadn't just
fallen. He'd swung a wrecking ball on his way down, aiming for the Cohen's
carefully restored façade. And he'd handed the lever to Elara Thorne.
Across the city, in the sleek, tech-heavy confines of Aeterna Tower's
security hub, the focus had decisively shifted.
"Robert's a spent force," Silas said, pulling up a new board on the main
screen. It was no longer a web centred on Robert Hayes. Now, two names sat at
the apex: Arthur Cohen and, connected by a thin but bold line, Julian Cohen.
"He's in custody, his assets are frozen, and his credibility is zero. But the
poison he was talking about? It's still active. And its vector is the secret he
spat at Elara."
Ben Thorne, leaning against a console with his arms crossed, frowned.
"You think it's true? About Julian's mother?"
"Robert's final play wasn't a lie," Elara said from the doorway. She
walked in, looking weary but focused. "It was a contamination. He knows we have
the ledger. He knows we're coming for the rest. So he tried to make the truth
itself toxic. To make us question whether exposing it would do more harm than
good."
"But we look anyway," Ben said, a grim smile touching his lips. "It's
what we do."
"We look specifically," Silas corrected. He brought up a new file.
"Birth records. Start with Julian Arthur Cohen, date of birth, known hospital."
The official record appeared—a digitised certificate from a prestigious private
hospital. Parents: Arthur Cohen and Eleanor (née Vance) Cohen. All normal, all
clean.
"Too clean," Ben muttered. "For a guy whose family built a vault for
secrets, his own origin story is spotless? I don't buy it."
"Dig deeper," Silas instructed. "Hospital archives, non-digitised logs.
Look for inconsistencies. Nurse signatures, attending physician records for
that date, medication logs."
For hours, they worked in a silence broken only by the hum of servers
and the click of keys. They were hackers, not genealogists, but the principles
were the same: follow the data, find the anomaly.
It was Ben who found the first thread. "Got something," he said, his
voice tight with concentration. "The attending obstetrician listed on the
digital record, a Dr. Albright? He was out of the country at a medical
conference in Zurich on Julian's listed birth date. Confirmed by flight
manifests and conference attendance logs."
A cold ripple went through the room. A ghost signature.
"So the primary doctor wasn't there," Silas said, leaning in. "Who
signed the physical form? There has to be a hard copy in a city or state
archive."
Elara joined them, her eyes scanning the screens. "If they went to this
much trouble with the doctor, the rest will be buried deeper."
"Then we burn through the layers," Silas replied. He initiated a series
of complex decryption protocols, targeting the sealed archives of the city's
vital records department. It was a virtual heist, conducted in absolute
silence.
The breakthrough came not from a birth record, but from an adoption
filing.
A document, sealed under a judge's order that had expired due to a
clerical error years prior, flickered onto the main screen. It was an
application for a closed, private adoption. The petitioners: Arthur and Eleanor
Cohen. The child: Male Infant, designated 'J.' The date: six weeks after
Julian's official birthday.
The room held its breath.
The listed adoption agency was a small, now-defunct firm that had been
investigated for unethical practices in the late 80s. The space for the birth
mother's name was redacted, even in this sealed file. The space for the
father's name was blank.
"It's not a birth certificate," Elara whispered, the reality of it
settling like lead. "It's a cover story. A legal ghost."
Ben pulled up the associated files. "The Cohens' lawyer at the time
pulled every string. Expedited ruling, sealed everything under 'family
privacy.' The judge was a golfing buddy of Arthur's father." He whistled low.
"This isn't just a secret. This is a surgical operation. They built Julian a
past."
Silas zoomed in on the redaction. "The birth mother is the key. If
Robert knew, others might. If she's alive…"
"It's the ultimate leverage," Elara finished. "And Robert just told the
world to ask about her." She looked at the screen, at the cold, bureaucratic
language that constructed a man's identity. "Julian doesn't know. He can't. The
way he protects the family legacy… it's the only identity he's ever had."
"Do we tell him?" Ben asked, looking between his sister and Silas.
Silas was pragmatic. "It's a strategic asset. The Cohens have been a
neutral-to-hostile entity. This information could paralyse them."
Elara stared at the infant designation 'J.' on the screen. She thought
of Julian on the wharf, his fear genuine, warning her of the vipers' nest. He
was trying to protect a family that, in its most fundamental truth, had never
been his. He was a custodian of a lie.
"No," she said finally, her voice firm. "We don't use it. Not like
that." She met Silas's gaze. "This isn't just a weapon. It's a person's life.
Robert wanted us to use it to cause maximum chaos. To become like him."
"Then what?" Silas asked, not challenging, but seeking her intent.
"We find the truth for us," she said. "To understand the chain that
binds our families. To know what we're really dealing with." She pointed to the
redaction. "We find her. The real mother. Because if the Cohens went to these
lengths to hide her, she's either a terrible threat… or she's a victim. And I'm
done with victims being buried to protect powerful men."
The mission was clear, and more dangerous than ever. They were no longer
digging up financial crimes or personal vendettas. They were unearthing the
foundational lie of a billion-dollar dynasty. And somewhere out there, a woman
who had given up a son was the key to it all.
As they began the new, delicate search, a notification pinged on Silas's
secondary monitor. It was a financial alert. A series of large, encrypted
withdrawals from a Cohen Holdings subsidiary, traced to a shell company in
Luxembourg. The payments had begun the day after Robert's arrest.
The money wasn't moving to hide assets. It was moving as if to pay
someone off. Or to keep someone quiet.
The ghost in the machine had a bank account. And it was active.