Daniel met me two days later with another folder.
This time, he didn't bring coffee.
He brought copies of corporate records, laboratory invoices, and messages between employees.
I sat across from him and waited.
“The technician is willing to speak with you,” he said.
“Why now?”
“She was afraid.”
“Of Brendan?”
“Of his father.”
I folded my hands.
“Then let's hear what she knows.”
Her name was Evelyn Hart.
She arrived twenty minutes later.
She looked exhausted.
The first thing she did was apologize.
“I should have spoken sooner.”
I didn't tell her it was okay.
It wasn't.
Instead, I asked, “Why did you process my blood?”
“I was instructed to.”
“By whom?”
“Dr. Marcus Vance.”
I knew the name.
Brendan's father.
He had always been introduced to me as a successful investor with philanthropic interests.
I had met him twice.
Both times, he had been polite.
Both times, I had felt as though he were studying me.
“What did he want?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“A sample.”
“For what?”
“He didn't tell me.”
“Then why did you follow the instruction?”
“Because it came through the medical director.”
She looked down.
“I didn't know the request had been arranged outside normal procedures until later.”
I asked about the emergency story.
“Did Brendan know?”
“I saw his friends at the clinic.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
She swallowed.
“I don't know.”
Daniel placed another document on the table.
“Evelyn told us that someone from Brendan's group delivered a file containing Chloe's information.”
“What information?”
“My blood type. Medical history. Previous test results.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Who had access to those?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I remembered something.
Three years earlier, Brendan had insisted on knowing everything about my health after I fainted during rehearsal.
At the time, I thought he was worried.
Now I wondered whether he had been collecting information.
“Did he ever ask for my medical records?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
“Several times.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“I assumed he was helping you.”
I laughed without humor.
“That seems to be everyone's excuse.”
Nobody responded.
Daniel opened another document.
“This is where the story becomes complicated.”
He showed me a transfer authorization.
My blood had been assigned a research code.
Not my name.
A number.
But beneath the code was a handwritten note.
Potential familial compatibility.
I frowned.
“Familial with whom?”
“We don't know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It could mean the researchers were looking for a specific biological marker.”
I stared at the page.
“Why mine?”
“We haven't established that.”
“Then establish it.”
Daniel nodded.
Evelyn looked uncomfortable.
“There is something I haven't told you.”
I turned toward her.
“The sample wasn't the only thing collected.”
“What else?”
“A second tube.”
“For what?”
“Genetic testing.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I stood.
“Did I consent to that?”
“No.”
My hands began shaking.
“Then someone stole my DNA.”
Daniel corrected gently, “Potentially.”
“Don't soften it.”
He didn't answer.
I paced toward the window.
The anger was different now.
The revenge archive had been cruel.
This felt invasive.
Someone had taken something biological from me and sent it somewhere without telling me.
Something I could never replace.
“Where is the sample now?”
Evelyn said, “I don't know.”
“Who does?”
“The research company.”
“It closed.”
“Yes.”
“Then where did the samples go?”
She looked at Daniel.
He answered.
“A storage facility.”
I turned around.
“Where?”
“Phoenix.”
I stared at him.
“How many times has my life crossed that place without me knowing?”
He didn't respond.
We spent the following week requesting records.
The process was slow.
Some files were incomplete.
Others had been archived.
Several departments claimed they couldn't locate the relevant documentation.
Then Daniel found an inventory record.
There had been hundreds of biological samples.
Most were transferred to a university laboratory after the research division closed.
Mine was listed separately.
“Why separately?” I asked.
“Because someone requested its removal.”
“Who?”
The request had been signed by Marcus Vance.
My anger became almost impossible to contain.
“Where was it sent?”
A private storage facility.
No university.
No hospital.
No approved research institution.
Private storage.
I asked whether we could retrieve it.
Daniel said we were working on it.
Then he added something that stopped me.
“There's another issue.”
“What?”
“The request to isolate your sample was made before your donation.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He showed me the date.
The request had been created three days before the fake accident.
Three days.
The prank had been planned.
The blood donation had been planned.
But the research request had existed first.
That meant Brendan's friends hadn't invented the hospital story by themselves.
Someone else had already decided that I needed to donate blood.
I sat down.
“Brendan knew.”
“We don't know.”
“But his friends were at the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“And his father's company requested my blood before the accident.”
“Yes.”
“So either Brendan knew, or someone used him.”
Daniel nodded.
“That is the question.”
I thought about the number ninety-six.
The way they had laughed.
The way Brendan had said I always got involved.
Maybe he had known more than he admitted.
Or maybe his friends had used his obsession with revenge to hide something else.
The possibility made my skin crawl.
That evening, I called Scarlett.
She answered after several rings.
“I was wondering when you'd call.”
“You knew about the research?”
Silence.
“What research?”
I explained.
When I finished, she didn't speak.
“Scarlett?”
“I knew Brendan's father had an interest in you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“He asked about your family.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You do know something.”
She exhaled.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“What about him?”
“Before you met Brendan, your father worked with a medical company.”
I remembered.
Dad had mentioned consulting work years earlier.
I had never paid much attention.
“What company?”
“Vance Biomedical.”
My breath caught.
Brendan's father's company.
Scarlett continued.
“I heard them arguing once. Brendan's father wanted access to something your father had developed.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Brendan told me your father had stolen something from his family.”
I closed my eyes.
The pieces weren't fitting yet.
But they were beginning to form a shape.
“My father didn't steal anything.”
“I know that now.”
“How?”
“Because I found something after Brendan and I stopped speaking.”
“What?”
“A message from his father.”
She sent it to me.
I opened the attachment.
There were only two sentences.
The first said my name.
The second said:
She has no idea what her father took from us.
I stared at the screen.
For the first time, I understood that Brendan's hatred might never have been about Scarlett.
It might never have been about the championship.
Those things could have been excuses.
The real reason might have started with our families long before Brendan and I ever met.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: My Father Finally Told Me What Happened Before Brendan Entered My Life, and the Truth Changed What I Thought I Knew
I Thought I Was Saving the Man I Loved Until a Quiet Hallway Revealed Why My Blood Had Been Needed
Part 6 of 12
