Chapter 3 - Blood Doesn't Lie
The private airfield was completely devoid of commercial bustle. A pristine Gulfstream G650 stood gleaming under the midday sun, its polished silver trim catching the light. Two pilots in crisp uniforms stood by the airstair, snapping to attention the moment Natalie stepped out of the black SUV.
She hadn't even had time to change. She wore her faded canvas sneakers, worn jeans, and an oversized cotton sweater she usually used for gardening. But as she boarded the aircraft, the flight attendant bowed her head with genuine deference. “Welcome aboard, Miss Prescott. Can I bring you fresh water or hot tea?”
Hearing the surname ‘Prescott’ made Natalie’s breath catch in her throat. She sank into an ultra-soft cream leather captain’s chair, staring out the oval window as the engines whined to life. Below her, the small town she had spent a lifetime surviving in shrank into a tiny grid of toy houses.
Forty-five minutes later, the aircraft touched down at Charlotte Douglas International Airport. A private tarmac gate opened, admitting another motorcade that whisked her away toward the exclusive rolling hills of south Charlotte.
They passed through towering wrought-iron gates bearing the crest of a silver falcon perched on an anchor. The driveway wound through hundreds of acres of manicured oak groves, arriving before a limestone manor that looked like an ancestral European palace.
Arthur Vance led her through the grand foyer, past marble statues and priceless oil paintings, up a sweeping staircase to a sun-drenched private medical suite on the second floor.
In the center of the room, surrounded by quiet monitoring equipment, sat an older man in an armchair near the balcony. He had stark white hair, piercing green eyes that mirrored Natalie’s own, and a face lined with decades of ruthless business battles and unhealed grief.
When the door clicked open, Julian Prescott looked up.
His eyes locked onto Natalie’s face. The old man’s breath hitching was the only sound in the room. He gripped the arms of his chair, attempting to stand, but his knees wobbled. Natalie, acting on instinct rather than hesitation, rushed forward and caught his trembling forearms.
Julian stared at her face, his gaze searching every feature, every curve of her jaw, the exact shade of her eyes. Slowly, with a hand that shook violently, he reached up and gently moved her sweater collar aside.
There, just beneath the collarbone, rested the faint, feather-shaped birthmark.
A choked sob tore from the throat of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Julian wrapped his arms around Natalie, pulling her tightly against his chest. Tears soaked into the shoulder of her worn sweater.
“My girl,” Julian wept, his powerful voice breaking into jagged pieces. “Eleanor’s little girl... You’re home. God forgive me, you’re finally home.”
Natalie, who had sworn she wouldn't cry after Derek’s betrayal, felt a dam burst inside her soul. She buried her face into her father’s shoulder, weeping for the twenty-five years stolen from them, for her adoptive mother’s silent sacrifices, and for the four years she had wasted on a man who had discarded her like trash.
After an hour of quiet conversation, Vance returned to the room holding a crimson folder. Inside was the certified genetic laboratory report.
“A ninety-nine point nine-nine percent absolute match,” Vance announced with a warm smile. “The chain of custody is legally sealed. Miss Natalie is, beyond any legal or biological dispute, Julian Prescott’s sole surviving heir.”
Julian wiped his eyes, his demeanor shifting from weeping father to the formidable titan who commanded an empire. He looked at Natalie’s faded clothes, her calloused hands, and the shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
“Arthur told me everything he learned during the background sweep,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a deadly, freezing calm. “He told me about the boy you married. Derek Cross. An account manager at Vanguard Commercial Properties.”
Natalie looked down at her lap. “He left this morning, Dad. He emptied our joint account. He went on a trip to Atlanta with a woman named Lauren Pike.”
Julian’s green eyes flashed with an icy, predatory gleam that had terrified Wall Street for forty years. “Lauren Pike? The daughter of Gregory Pike, who owns Pike Commercial Holdings?”
“Yes,” Natalie said quietly. “Derek said she could elevate his career. He told me I was nothing but an anchor holding him back from real success.”
Julian let out a cold, low laugh that chilled the room. He reached over, picked up his private phone, and pressed speed dial.
“Arthur,” Julian commanded. “Call Marcus over at Vanguard Commercial. Who owns the controlling majority share of their parent holding group?”
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“You do, Mr. Prescott,” Vance answered without missing a beat. “Prescott Capital acquired sixty-two percent of Vanguard’s debt and equity last November.”
“Excellent,” Julian said smoothly, turning his gaze back to his daughter with an expression of fierce, unconditional love. “Then it’s time we promote my daughter to the board. And it’s time Mr. Cross discovers exactly who he left behind.”
