The office was quiet except for the steady clicking of keys. Emma's fingers moved with precision across the keyboard, posture immaculate, expression unreadable—every inch the Vice President of BT Group.
A knock broke the rhythm.
Tyrion stepped inside, a thin folder tucked under his arm. Even before he spoke, Emma sensed it. Whatever he carried was not ordinary.
"The reports are ready, Ma."
She didn't look up. "Tell me."
He moved closer, voice measured. "We couldn't trace his biological parents. No records, no hospital trail." A pause. "He was taken in by an elderly woman when he was about five. She passed away six months later. After that, he was sent to an orphanage."
Emma's fingers slowed.
"He stayed there until he was fifteen," Tyrion continued. "Afterward… he survived on his own. No stable home. No support."
The room felt suddenly colder.
Emma lifted her gaze. "And the DNA?"
Tyrion handed her the folder with both hands. "Inside."
She opened it carefully, eyes scanning line by line. At first, nothing changed. Then her breath caught. The color drained from her face. Her fingers trembled, barely perceptible—until a tear slipped free and landed on the page.
"…Impossible," she whispered.
Tyrion stiffened. "Ma?"
She snapped the folder shut and stood abruptly. "That's all."
Before he could say another word, she was already walking—heels striking the marble floor with sharp, uneven rhythm. The report was clenched against her chest as though it might vanish if she loosened her grip.
Moments later, the President's office door flew open.
North looked up from his documents, startled. "Emma—what's going on?"
She crossed the room and dropped the folder onto his desk. "Read it."
He frowned, flipping through the pages. As his eyes reached the final report, the shift was unmistakable. The calm cracked. Disbelief surfaced.
"This says—" He looked up slowly. "Are you certain?"
Emma nodded, her voice shaking despite herself. "There's no margin for error. Our son… he isn't dead."
Silence swallowed the room.
North leaned back, exhaling as though the weight of years had finally found his lungs. "Alive," he murmured. Then his gaze hardened with resolve. "Then we bring him home."
"Yes," Emma said softly. "I'll handle it."
North straightened, the President once more. "You may go."
She turned without another word.
Outside, Emma pressed the folder to her chest, her steps slowing for the first time. Guilt twisted with relief. Hope warred with fear.
Truth, long buried, had surfaced at last.
And blood—no matter how far it wandered—had found its way back.