Chapter 4 - The DNA Results
By 3:00 PM, the atmosphere in the penthouse was thick with nervous energy. The quadruplets had discovered my media room and were happily watching animated movies, completely oblivious to the war being waged over their existence.
Mara sat at the kitchen island, staring at a mug of black coffee that had long since gone cold.
"She’s not going to stop, Julian," Mara said, breaking the silence. "Your mother has spent her entire life protecting the Whitaker name. She sees me and the boys as a disease that needs to be eradicated."
"She’s powerless if we stick together," I said, pouring fresh coffee into a mug and setting it down before her.
A quiet chime echoed from my laptop on the counter. An encrypted email had just arrived from Dr. Harrison’s lab.
Mara’s breath hitched. She stood up, her hand instinctively reaching out to grab mine. I felt my own pulse racing as I double-clicked the PDF attachment.
The document was lengthy, filled with complex genetic marker charts and technical terminology. I scrolled directly to the bottom page, where the official summary was stamped in red ink:
PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY:
Milo Julian Whitaker: 99.999%
Mason Edward Whitaker: 99.999%
Max Alexander Whitaker: 99.999%
Micah Thomas Whitaker: 99.999%
CONCLUSION: Julian Edward Whitaker cannot be excluded as the biological father.
A tear slipped down Mara’s cheek, splashing onto the glass screen of my phone. She buried her face in her hands, letting out a soft, shuddering sob that broke my heart.
"They’re yours," she choked out. "I knew it... but seeing it on paper... I thought for six years I was crazy. I thought maybe I was wrong to fight so hard..."
I pulled her into my arms, wrapping my arms around her waist, burying my face in her soft hair. She didn't pull away this time. She clung to my shirt, weeping six years of buried pain, isolation, and fear into my chest.
"You weren't crazy," I whispered against her hair. "You were incredible. You raised four amazing boys all by yourself in a world that was trying to erase you. But you're not alone anymore, Mara. I swear to you, you will never have to fight alone again."
She pulled back slightly, looking up at me with those impossible green eyes that had haunted my dreams for six long years. "What do we do now?"
Before I could answer, my cell phone rang. It was an unrecognized number.
May you like
I pressed answer. "Julian Whitaker."
"Julian," a smooth, arrogant voice came through the speaker. It was Charles Cartwright—Brielle’s father and one of the most ruthless hedge fund billionaires in Manhattan. "We need to talk about what happened last night. And we need to talk about it now."
