Dad didn't speak when I showed him the message.
He sat at the kitchen table with both hands around his coffee cup.
Mom stood near the sink.
For several minutes, nobody said anything.
Finally, Dad asked, “Where did you get this?”
“Scarlett.”
His eyes closed.
I had never seen my father look frightened by a piece of paper.
“Dad?”
He put the cup down.
“I hoped you would never have to know.”
“Know what?”
He looked at Mom.
She nodded.
Then he turned back to me.
“Years ago, I worked as a financial consultant for Vance Biomedical.”
I already knew that.
“What did you do for them?”
“I reviewed investment projects.”
“Research?”
“Some.”
“What did they research?”
He hesitated.
“Regenerative medicine.”
I waited.
“They were developing treatments using biological markers to identify people with unusual compatibility profiles.”
I remembered the laboratory document.
Familial compatibility.
“What did that have to do with you?”
“Nothing at first.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Then I found irregularities in the records.”
“What kind?”
“Samples were being collected from people who hadn't properly consented.”
My stomach tightened.
“You reported it?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“The board.”
“And?”
“They buried it.”
Dad's voice became quieter.
“I resigned.”
Mom finally spoke.
“He thought leaving would end it.”
“It didn't.”
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
“Vance Biomedical had invested heavily in a research program. They believed certain families carried genetic traits that could make specific treatments more effective.”
I stared at him.
“Our family?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“Your grandmother.”
I frowned.
“She had a rare blood characteristic.”
I remembered very little about my grandmother's medical history.
“What kind?”
Dad shook his head.
“I never learned enough to know.”
“Then why would they want my blood?”
“Because they believed the trait might have been inherited.”
The room became silent.
I looked at the message again.
“What did you take from them?”
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did they say you stole something?”
“I took evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Records proving that they had collected samples without consent.”
I stared at him.
“Where are they?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I gave them to investigators.”
“Did they investigate?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The company survived.”
I felt anger rising.
“So they came after you.”
“They tried.”
“Did Brendan know?”
Dad looked away.
“I don't know what his father told him.”
“But he knew our families were connected.”
“I suspect he did.”
I thought about the archive.
The jokes.
The championship.
Scarlett.
The blood.
Maybe Brendan had grown up hearing a story about my family.
Maybe he had been taught that I was connected to something his father wanted.
Maybe dating me had never been accidental.
That possibility hurt more than the revenge.
“Dad,” I said, “did Brendan approach me because of you?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I don't know.”
It was the same answer I had heard too many times.
I needed facts.
Not guesses.
Daniel continued the investigation.
Two weeks later, he found an old employee directory.
Liam's name appeared beside the research division.
He hadn't simply been Brendan's cousin.
He had worked for the company.
I called him.
He didn't answer.
I left one message.
“Liam, I know about the research program. If you want to tell me the truth, call me.”
He called the next morning.
His voice was strained.
“You shouldn't be involved.”
“I've been involved since before I knew.”
“Your father was right.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I sat down.
“Start talking.”
Liam was silent for several seconds.
“Brendan didn't know all of it.”
“How much did he know?”
“He knew his father believed your family had something valuable.”
“What?”
“Genetic data.”
My stomach dropped.
“Did Brendan date me because of that?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“How can I believe you?”
“You can't.”
At least he was honest.
“Then why did he do all those things?”
“Because he hated you.”
“Why?”
“Because his father convinced him that your father had destroyed the family company.”
“But my father resigned.”
“He also testified.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened after that?”
“Brendan blamed your family.”
“For years?”
“Yes.”
“Then Scarlett?”
“Scarlett was convenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brendan wanted someone to blame for losing the championship. Your victory became proof, in his mind, that your family always took what belonged to his.”
I shook my head.
“That doesn't explain dating me.”
“It doesn't.”
“Then explain it.”
Liam went silent.
“Liam.”
“He wanted access.”
“To what?”
“Your medical history.”
My hands went cold.
“Did he ever get it?”
“I don't know.”
I remembered all the questions.
The appointments.
The time he had asked whether my parents had unusual medical conditions.
The time he had wanted to know my blood type.
The time he had joked that I should keep copies of my medical records.
At the time, each question had seemed affectionate.
Now they looked different.
“Did you organize the archive?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought we were punishing you.”
“We?”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds exactly like what it was.”
“I was wrong.”
“Why did you keep records?”
“Because Brendan wanted proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That you would always come back.”
I went silent.
Liam continued.
“He believed every time you forgave him, it proved your family was weak.”
My eyes burned.
“That isn't revenge.”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Control.”
The word stayed with me.
Not revenge.
Control.
The fake accident had been control.
The blood donation had been control.
The relationship itself had become control.
I asked one final question.
“Who ordered the blood test?”
Liam hesitated.
“My uncle.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Did Brendan know?”
“I think he found out afterward.”
“Why didn't he stop it?”
“He didn't care.”
That answer hurt in a different way.
Liam gave me an address.
The private storage facility.
“Your sample was never destroyed,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because your uncle believed it might prove something.”
“What?”
“That your family carried the marker he had been searching for.”
I stared at the wall.
For years, Brendan had told me I wasn't special.
He had mocked my achievements.
Made me doubt myself.
Made me believe my success had been luck.
Now I understood the cruelty of it.
His family had been searching for something in me long before I knew they were looking.
And Brendan had been standing beside them.
The next morning, Daniel filed the paperwork to recover the sample.
I expected the process to take weeks.
Instead, we received a response within forty-eight hours.
The facility had been emptied.
The samples were gone.
Someone had removed them three days earlier.
Three days before we requested access.
I stared at the notice.
Someone knew we were coming.
And whoever it was still had my blood.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Missing Sample Led Me Back to the People Who Had Manipulated Me, and This Time I Refused to Let Them Choose What Happened Next
I Thought I Was Saving the Man I Loved Until a Quiet Hallway Revealed Why My Blood Had Been Needed
Part 7 of 12
