I sat frozen in the middle of the crowded restaurant. People were eating pasta and taking selfies around us, completely unaware that my entire world was fracturing into pieces.
I looked at the woman in the photo who supposed to be my biological mother. I looked at the letter with the ducal crest. I looked at Axel, who was gripping his cane like a weapon, looking ready to fight an army but not sure about how to fight this.
"A Duke?" I whispered, choked up by how absurd the situation was. "My mother was a teacher. She was married to a journalist. I think you have the wrong person. Maybe I’m just a lookalike or sothing."
"Your mother was the daughter of one of the wealthiest n in Europe," Pennyworth said firmly. "And you, Mada, are the sole heiress to the Huntington fortune and estate."
He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back in a formal pose.
"The car is waiting downstairs. We can leave immediately if you wish."
I looked at the red wax seal, which contrasted sharply with the white tablecloth. My hands were shaking.
"I..." My voice failed completely.
"We aren’t going anywhere tonight," Axel said firmly, though his hand covered mine under the table, squeezing tight. "But you should sit down, Mr. Pennyworth. I think you’d better order a drink. We have a lot of questions, and you’re going to answer all of them."
Pennyworth glanced at his bodyguard, who nodded once. He pulled out his phone and stepped to the side, speaking in rapid, hushed tones.
"Yes, sir, we’ve located her... No, sir, she requires ti... I understand, sir. I will keep you inford."
He ended the call and gestured to his bodyguard, who moved to stand a respectful distance away. Then Pennyworth sat down carefully in the empty chair at our table, straightening his already-perfect tie.
The silence stretched between us. The sounds of the restaurant felt impossibly loud and distant at the sa ti.
"I don’t believe this," I said finally. I pushed the photograph back across the white tablecloth toward him. "I know I didn’t grow up with my biological parents, but from what I know, Sarah Stuart was a school teacher. She wasn’t a Lady. She didn’t grow up in a castle or whatever. She lived in a small house with her husband before they died in that accident."
Mr. Pennyworth didn’t blink. He took a calm sip of the water the hovering waiter had placed in front of him.
"Sarah Stuart was indeed a teacher," Pennyworth agreed. "And she was a wonderful woman, by all accounts we’ve gathered. But she was not born Sarah Stuart. She was born Lady Victoria Catherine Huntington."
"This is ridiculous," Axel muttered, his hand tightening around his steak knife. "Layla, we’re leaving. This is so kind of scam."
"Please, Mrs. O’Brien," Pennyworth said, his voice losing some of its formal stiffness and gaining an edge of desperation. "Just listen to the tiline. Your mother traveled overseas twenty-six years ago with no history. No birth certificate, no social security number until she ’obtained’ one through less-than-legal ans. She left with a young journalist nad Michael Stuart, and they got married shortly after."
I froze, my breath catching. "How do you know my father’s na?"
"Because we investigated him," Pennyworth said simply. "Thoroughly. Lady Victoria, I an, Sarah ran away from ho when she was nineteen. She had fallen in love with Michael Stuart while he was on assignnt abroad, covering a story about so aristocracy for his newspaper.
"Her parents, your grandparents, disapproved strongly and threatened to disown her. They threatened him with legal action, deportation, and with everything they could think of."
He paused.
"So she made a choice. Your mother chose love over duty, money and her title. She ran away with Michael to Arica in the middle of the night with nothing but a suitcase and her mother’s jewellery. She changed her na to Sarah after her favourite childhood doll and beca a teacher. She wanted a simple life built on love, and not obligation."
I felt a lump form in my throat. It sounded exactly like them. "Good people." That’s how everyone who knew them described my parents.
They adored each other. The few photos I had showed them always touching, and smiling. It made sense that they would leave everything behind to be together.
"If you people were looking for her," Axel asked sharply, "why didn’t you find her when she died? That was over twenty years ago. Why didn’t you show up then?"
Pennyworth’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening.
"Because of Charles Watson," he spat the name like a curse. "When Charles Watson killed your parents in that car crash, he didn’t just adopt you out of guilt or compassion.
"He buried their identities to protect his own interests. He rushed the adoption process, sealed all the records, and changed your na to Layla Watson immediately. By the ti our private investigators started following leads, ’Sarah Stuart’ was just a closed file. A dead end. There wasn’t even a record of your adoption. So it was almost like you vanished."
I sat back in my chair, the wind knocked out of . Charles. Even now, even from wherever he was hiding, his shadow was still over me, controlling my life.
"The jet is waiting at the airport," Pennyworth said urgently, leaning forward. "The Duke is failing rapidly. The doctors say he has perhaps a month left, maybe only weeks. He’s been holding on, waiting, and hoping we would find Victoria’s daughter. You’re his last chance to make peace with his past."
I reached out with trembling fingers and took the photograph again, studying my mother’s face —my face, in the golden garden light.
Axel stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, breaking the spell that had settled over the table.
"No," he said flatly, his voice leaving no room for argunt.
Pennyworth blinked up at him in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"We don’t get on planes with strangers," Axel said coldly. "And we certainly don’t fly to foreign countries based on a sad story and a photograph that could have been doctored. I don’t care how convincing you are."
"But Mr. O’Brien, ti is of the essence..."
"Then you shouldn’t have waited twenty-five years," Axel cut him off. "If you are who you say you are, if this Duke is real, if any of this is legitimate, then you won’t mind us running a full background check. On you, on the Duke, on all of it. If it clears, we’ll call you. If it doesn’t, you’ll never hear from us again."
Pennyworth looked at with desperate eyes.
I stood up slowly, clutching the photograph like a lifeline. My heart wanted to go, wanted to run to that plane and find answers.
But my head, the head that had survived Henry’s betrayal and Marco’s bomb, knew Axel was right. Rushing into sothing this big, and life-changing, was dangerous.
"Leave your contact information," I said, "We’ll be in touch once we verify everything. I promise."
Pennyworth hesitated, then sighed deeply. He placed a heavy, cream-coloured business card on the table, embossed with gold lettering and that sa crest: the lion and shield.
"The Duke is holding on for you, Mada," he said softly, standing and giving another formal bow. "He’s waited twenty-six years for this moment. Please. Do not take too long."
Axel wrapped his arm protectively around my waist, creating a physical barrier between and the solicitor. "Let’s go, Layla."
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