His eyes drifted back to the open locket resting on the desk, the photograph inside seared into his mind.
The man in the picture looked almost exactly like his father.
Same sharp jawline. Same deep-set eyes.
Only older. Much older.
Ethan sank into the leather chair and sat there for several long minutes, unmoving. No calls. No thoughts. Just the dull pounding in his chest. There was no logical explanation for what he was seeing, and yet his instincts—those instincts that had built an empire—were screaming that this was not coincidence.
That evening, he opened the security cameras again.
On the screen, Laura Bennett sat on the edge of the bed, reading a picture book to Samuel. Her voice was calm, steady, full of warmth. The boy laughed, reached up to touch her cheek, stumbled over her name in that soft, childish way that made his chest tighten.
It didn’t look like employment.
It looked like family.
That night, Ethan didn’t sleep. He lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the image of the photograph, the locket, the way Laura had instinctively pulled Samuel close earlier that day when thunder cracked in the distance.