Chapter 7 - The Unraveling at Bainbridge
The forty-eight hours that followed were a whirlwind of quiet, calculated war.
Tristan didn't return to the penthouse. He stayed at a boutique hotel downtown, working around the clock with Sam Vance. The investigator had struck gold. With the threat of a full federal inquiry hanging over his head, the former lab tech Gregory Vance had cracked over an encrypted phone call from Costa Rica. He provided the wire transfer receipts: two hundred and fifty thousand dollars sent from an offshore account registered to a shell company owned by Crowell Legal Partners.
Sabine had not just carried Arthur’s plan out—she had engineered it.
On Friday morning, the day before the grand Hollis-Crowell rehearsal dinner at the sprawling Hollis estate on Bainbridge Island, the encrypted email arrived from Seattle Children's Hospital.
Tristan sat at the desk in his hotel room, his finger hovering over the mouse. His heart hammered in his ears. He clicked the link, entered his security credentials, and waited for the PDF to render.
There, in bold black ink beneath the medical seal, was the definitive verdict:
PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY: 99.9998%. TRISTAN HOLLIS IS IDENTIFIED AS THE BIOLOGICAL FATHER OF LEO KATON.
Tristan lowered his face into his hands and wept. The relief was so immense, so heavy, that it crushed the breath from his lungs. He was a father. He had a son. But the joy was instantly choked by a dark, burning fury for the people who had stolen those three years from him.
He printed four copies of the report, placed them into four separate red folders alongside the wire transfer documents, and picked up his car keys.
The Bainbridge Island estate was already buzzing with activity when Tristan arrived. Caterers were setting up grand white tents on the bluffs overlooking the Sound. Florists were arranging thousands of white roses along the perimeter. In the formal garden room, Sabine was discussing place settings with Tristan’s mother, Eleanor, who had flown in from Paris for the festivities. Arthur sat in an armchair nearby, reviewing the final draft of the merger agreement that would be signed following the ceremony.
"There you are, darling!" Sabine said, turning with a brilliant, relieved smile as Tristan walked into the room. She wore an ivory dress that practically screamed bride-to-be. "We were worried sick. The rehearsal starts at four, and Arthur said you were having a minor... personal crisis."
Tristan didn't answer. He walked to the long mahogany table, set the four red folders down, and slid one toward Sabine, one toward his father, and one toward his mother.
May you like
"What is this?" Sabine asked, her smile faltering as she looked at the red cardboard.
"That," Tristan said, his voice ringing like an executioner's bell through the silent room, "is the end of your wedding, Sabine. And the end of your law firm."
