New Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she held a baby wrapped inside a black trash bag

The rain drummed heavily against the glass dome of the Pinecrest Memorial Hospital annex, where Florence lay resting under an oxygen mask. Spencer sat upright in a stiff plastic chair beside the bed, his mind racing through decades of buried family history. Charlee was curled up asleep on a nearby sofa, exhausted from the emotional turbulence of the day.

Dr. Pamela Ortiz had accompanied them to the hospital, her hands trembling as she clutched a leather-bound folio.

“Spencer,” Pamela whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the child. “I didn't just give your genetic material to Jocelyn. I was blackmailed into it.”

Spencer turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Blackmailed by whom? My records were locked behind a biometric vault that only the chief director of the clinic—and my late father's estate attorney—could access.”

“By someone inside your own company,” Pamela confessed, pulling a crumpled printout from her coat pocket. “Look at this wire transfer. Ten million dollars routed through a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. It came through three days before Dexter was conceived. The authorization code matched the private ledger of Warren Enterprises.”

Spencer stared at the paper. The authorization code was his father's personal legacy key—a key that should have been deactivated the day his father passed away two years ago. Unless someone had been using it right under his nose.

Before Spencer could demand further explanation, Florence stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing milky, aged eyes that instantly locked onto Spencer's face.

“You have your father’s jaw,” Florence rasped, her voice sounding like dry paper rubbing together. “Stubborn. Unforgiving. And completely blind to the snakes in your own garden.”

Spencer stood up, stepping closer to the bedside. “Florence, Casey told me you used to work for my family. She said you claim my father had a daughter with you. Is Charlee my niece?”

Florence let out a dry, rattling cough that brought a nurse rushing into the room with a cup of water. After taking a small sip, Florence waved the nurse away and fixed her gaze on Spencer.

“Thirty years ago,” Florence began, her voice gaining strength, “your father was a ruthless man who tolerated no scandals. I was a young maid in this very mansion. I fell in love with a gardener, but your father... your father had other designs. When I became pregnant with my daughter—Charlee’s mother—your father paid me off, forced me to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and banished me to the slums on the outskirts of the city. But he didn't destroy the records. He kept them in his private safe.”

Spencer felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. “What does this have to do with Jocelyn Cooper and my frozen samples?”

“Everything,” Florence said bitterly. “Your father wanted an heir outside of your control to dilute your voting shares in Warren Enterprises. When he died, he left instructions for his secret vault to be opened only when a true bloodline descendant stood before it. Jocelyn Cooper was hired as a surrogate, but she discovered the plot. She realized they didn't just want a baby—they wanted a puppet king to seize control of the entire conglomerate.”

Charlee shifted on the sofa, murmuring softly in her sleep. Spencer clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.