Never Forgive, Never Forget My Pain

Hadley McCall POV:

The hum of the Lincoln Navigator’s tires against the wet Manhattan asphalt was the only sound in the cabin. I leaned back against the plush leather seat and pinched the bridge of my nose. The familiar, bone-deep exhaustion of running the McCall empire weighed heavily on my shoulders. I was an old man, but I was the absolute ruler of my family. I controlled everything. Everyone bowed to me.

But tonight, my chest felt tight.

I opened my eyes and glanced at the passenger seat next to me. A thick manila envelope lay there, stark against the black leather. A bright red "URGENT" stamp glared up at me. It was from the private investigator I had hired a week ago.

My upper lip curled in a sneer. I didn't want to open it. I despised the very idea of it. That filthy, malnourished street rat who had showed up at my gates, claiming to be my true granddaughter—it was an insult to the McCall bloodline. I had taken one look at her dirt-streaked face and ordered the guards to throw her out. I didn't care what she said. We already had Kylie. Kylie was perfect. Kylie was a princess.

But the nagging doubt had forced me to run the DNA test anyway. Just to be sure. Just to put the matter to rest so I could sleep at night.

I reached out and grabbed the envelope. I tore the flap open roughly, the sound of ripping paper loud and grating in the quiet car. The cabin was too dark. I fumbled for the reading light above my head and clicked it on. A harsh, pale beam illuminated the thin sheet of paper inside.

I pulled the report out. I didn't bother reading the medical jargon. I skipped straight to the bottom line.

*Probability of Paternity: 99.99%.*

My heart stopped. It didn't just flutter; it completely stopped beating in my chest. All the air was sucked out of the car.

I stared at the black ink. The numbers blurred, then sharpened again. 99.99%.

My hands began to shake. The tremor started in my fingers and traveled up my arms, rattling my bones. The thin paper crinkled loudly in my grip. I couldn't breathe. My throat closed up, and a wave of pure, acidic bile rose in my stomach.

I closed my eyes, but the darkness only brought the memories rushing back. I saw her again. I saw the rain pouring down on her frail, skeletal body. I saw the massive estate dogs lunging at her, their teeth sinking into her thin legs. I heard her desperate, agonizing screams as she begged me for help. And I remembered standing on the porch, looking down at her with cold disgust, and turning my back.

I had thrown my own flesh and blood to the dogs.

A sharp, agonizing pain ripped through my chest. The McCall honor, the bloodline purity I had protected my whole life—it all turned into a rusted blade, stabbing me repeatedly in the gut.

I jerked forward, gasping for air. My head slammed hard against the edge of the car roof. The dull thud echoed in the cabin, but I didn't feel the pain. My mind was completely fractured.

"Turn around!" I roared. My voice didn't sound like my own. It was a guttural, animalistic snarl that tore my vocal cords. "Turn the damn car around right now!"

The driver jumped in his seat. He slammed his foot on the brakes. The heavy SUV skidded on the wet asphalt, the tires screeching violently as the car violently jerked to a halt.

Horns blared behind us. The traffic was chaotic. I didn't care. I hit the button to roll down my window. The freezing rain whipped against my face, soaking my hair and my expensive suit. The physical shock of the cold was the only thing keeping me from passing out.

"Drive!" I screamed out the window at the cars blocking us, then turned to my driver. "St. Jude’s Hospital! Go! Run the red lights!"

The driver swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror in the rearview mirror. He spun the steering wheel. The Navigator jumped the median, scraping the undercarriage, and made an illegal U-turn right in the middle of the intersection. We nearly clipped a delivery truck, but I just gripped the overhead handle so hard my knuckles turned white. My eyes were bloodshot, burning with unshed tears and sheer panic.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My thumb hovered over the screen, trying to dial the hospital director. My hands were shaking so violently that I entered the wrong passcode. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Damn it!" I roared, slamming my fist against my thigh.

I finally unlocked it and hit the speed dial. The line rang twice before the director answered.

"Mr. McCall, I—"

"Lock down room 302!" I barked, my voice cracking. "Do not let anyone near that girl! I am five minutes away. If anyone touches her, I will destroy your life!"

There was a heavy silence on the other end. Then, the director's voice came through, trembling and weak.

"Mr. McCall... I can't. Child Protective Services breached the ward ten minutes ago. They had a federal warrant. They took her."

"No!" I screamed.

I hurled my limited-edition phone straight at the windshield. The glass spider-webbed with a loud crack. The driver flinched, ducking his head, but kept his foot on the gas.

When the car finally skidded to a halt in front of St. Jude’s emergency entrance, I didn't wait for the bodyguards. I kicked my door open and stumbled out into the pouring rain. My cane slipped on the wet pavement. I stepped directly into a deep puddle, splashing dirty water all over my tailored trousers and polished Italian leather shoes.

I pushed through the revolving doors like a madman. Nurses and doctors took one look at my face and scattered out of my way. I carried the aura of a man ready to commit murder.

The elevator doors were closing. I shoved my silver-handled cane between them, forcing the metal doors to groan and slide back open. I hit the button for the pediatric floor, my chest heaving, my lungs burning.

When the doors opened, I didn't walk. I ran. My old joints screamed in protest, but I forced my legs to move. I burst through the double doors of the ICU wing and sprinted down the silent, sterile hallway.

Room 302.

I grabbed the door handle and shoved it open.

"Eliza!" I gasped.

The room was empty. The harsh white fluorescent lights glared down on a stripped bed. The blanket was thrown halfway onto the floor.

I stumbled forward, my legs turning to jelly. I reached the bed and looked at the pillow. There, resting on the white cotton, were a few strands of dry, yellowed hair. It was the undeniable proof of her severe malnutrition. I reached out and touched the mattress. The edge of the bedsheet was torn, marked with deep, frantic scratch marks. She had fought them. She had been terrified, and she had fought whoever took her.

My knees gave out. I stumbled backward, my spine hitting the cold tiled wall with a heavy thud. My cane clattered to the floor.

A duty nurse rushed into the room, her eyes wide. "Sir! You can't be in here! Who are you?"

I lunged forward and grabbed her arm. My fingers dug into her flesh like iron claws.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my eyes wide and bloodshot, my breath ragged. "Where is my granddaughter?!"

The nurse cried out in pain, trying to pull away from my grip. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Let go of me!" she screamed. "The poor girl was taken by the CPS van ten minutes ago! And thank God they did! She was screaming that she would rather die than go back to your hellhole!"