The Surrogate He Discarded

Could he be a close relative of Isobel?

The thought came suddenly.

They shared the same last name, after all.

Before Kristoff could ask another question, Randy spoke.

”Sir, Isobel is our aunt. Her mother was our grandpa’s younger sister.”

Something flickered across Kristoff’s eyes.

Isobel has relatives?

He had always believed Isobel was an orphan. There had never been any mention of family—not parents, not grandparents, not even distant relatives.

So where had these children suddenly come from?

And why had Isobel never mentioned them?

”When did you first meet her?” Kristoff asked. His voice remained calm, but his attention sharpened. ”And how did you find out she was your aunt?”

Yana shifted uneasily beside her brother. Her small fingers twisted nervously in the hem of her pink blouse.

Randy glanced at his sister before answering.

”Sir, we only met Aunt Bel today.”

Kristoff’s brows drew together.

Bel.

Even these children, whom Isobel had supposedly met only today, called her by that familiar name so naturally, as though they had known her for years.

Kristoff had always called her Isobel.

Even during their most intimate moments, when the distance between them had disappeared and he had believed he knew her better than anyone, he called her Isobel and she had never once told him that she was called Bel.

And yet that man—Richard—had called her that so easily. So familiarly.

Something tightened in Kristoff’s chest.

Why had she never told him?

Why had she allowed him to believe that he knew everything about her when there was clearly so much she had kept hidden?

Who exactly was Isobel Lancey?

”We met Aunt Bel by accident,” Randy continued. ”She helped us and brought us home. That’s when she met our grandpa.”

He paused, his young face turning thoughtful.

”Our grandpa called her Rosella.”

Kristoff’s expression hardened.

”Rosella?”

Randy nodded.

”He said she looked exactly like his younger sister. He kept staring at Aunt Bel like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.”

Kristoff said nothing.

A strange uneasiness settled in his chest.

Rosella.

The name meant nothing to him, yet somehow it felt like a missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realized he was trying to solve.

”Go on,” Kristoff said when Randy fell silent.

Randy swallowed.

”Then... Aunt Bel told Grandpa that she was Rosella’s daughter.”

For the first time, Kristoff’s carefully controlled expression cracked.

Surprise flashed unmistakably across his face.

Isobel knew who her mother was?

She told him before she didn’t know.

But if what the boy said was true, then Isobel had just discovered the identity of her mother—or perhaps she had known all along.

Kristoff’s mind raced.

When did she find out?

And why hadn’t she told me?

His gaze drifted toward the hallway where Isobel had disappeared.

For the first time, the mystery surrounding her no longer felt like something in her past.

It felt like something that was about to change everything.

...

Kristoff continued questioning the boy, carefully piecing together every fragment of information he could get.

Rosella was dead.

The children knew very little about her. They couldn’t say when she had died or what had happened to her. As far as they knew, their grandfather had rarely spoken about her.

But there was one thing they knew for certain.

Their grandfather hated Rosella’s husband.

When Kristoff asked who Isobel’s father was, Randy could only shake his head.

”I don’t know, Sir.”

”What about your grandfather? Did he ever tell you his name?”

Another shake of the head.

”No. He just said he hated him because he was an ungrateful and a scumbag.”

Kristoff’s eyes narrowed.

Hated him. A scumbag?

The words lingered in his mind.

Who was this man?

What had he done to make Leon Lancey hate him so deeply?

And why had Isobel’s father been kept such a secret?

It looked like Isobel’s parentage was not simple.

Kristoff was about to press the boy for more when footsteps sounded behind him.

He turned.

Isobel was walking toward them.

His expression immediately tightened.

She looked exhausted.

There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, and even from a distance he could see the fatigue weighing on her. She had probably spent the entire day running between the accident, the children, and the hospital without stopping to think about herself.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than he intended.

”Have you eaten?”

The question came out more quietly than he expected.

His eyes never left her face.

Randy glanced at him, realizing the question had been directed at him.

Before he could answer, Yana’s sweet voice floated through the silence.

”Yes! Aunt Isobel took us to a restaurant. We had fried chicken.”

Something in Kristoff’s expression shifted.

Again.

Aunt Bel.

He gave a low hum, saying nothing.

Instead, he waited.

His attention remained fixed on Isobel as she drew closer, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he suddenly found himself more interested in what she would say than in anything the children had told him.

”Bel.”

Kristoff let the name linger on his tongue, testing it.

It was short and soft.

Isobel froze.

Her heart gave an unexpected jolt.

Why had he called her that?

She slowly turned toward him.

Their eyes met.

For several long seconds, neither of them spoke. The noise of the hospital seemed to recede until there was nothing between them but the weight of that single name.

Bel.

She had never told him to call her that.

So how did he know?

Kristoff held her gaze, his expression unreadable. There was something different in his eyes now—something sharper, more searching.

”Randy told me they’re your nephew and niece,” he said at last, breaking the silence. ”And the man in that room is your uncle.”

Isobel’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.

”Yes.” She gave a small nod. ”They are.”

Kristoff studied her face.

He could have asked a dozen questions.

Instead, he chose the one that mattered most.

”When did you find out about your mother?”

Isobel’s breath caught.

For the first time, the composure she’d been holding onto all evening faltered.

Her mother’s name had always been a locked door in her life.

And somehow, Kristoff had just found the key.