After returning home, I opened the USB drive Sophie had given me. While browsing the files, a document named “Reed_Accident_Report” caught my attention. I opened it to find a detailed investigation report of my parents’ car accident.

One passage made my heart stop:


“A laptop found at the accident scene showed that the deceased had received an email from William Morgan just hours before the accident, regarding the ownership transfer of the ‘Phoenix Algorithm’.”

My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the screen, each word cutting into my heart like a knife. My parents’ accident occurred after they refused to fully transfer the algorithm to Morgan Group. Even more shocking was that the person responsible for investigating this “accident” was none other than Thompson, then just a regular investigator.

Everything started connecting. William wanted my parents’ algorithm, but they refused. Then they met with an “accident.” Thompson was involved in the investigation, possibly helping to cover up the truth. And eight years later, when I became an investigator, Thompson pushed me toward Morgan Group…


I continued examining the files in depth and discovered more disturbing details. Photos from my parents’ crash site showed that the brake system had been deliberately tampered with. The initial version of the accident investigation report listed it as a “suspicious death,” but after Thompson took over, the conclusion was changed to “accidental death.”

Even more shocking was a communication record between William Morgan and Thompson dated shortly after my parents’ deaths: “The matter has been handled. Remember our agreement, your future will be secured. —WM”


My phone rang with a text from Thompson: “Need your report tonight. Contact me immediately if you find anything significant.”

—

At seven-thirty that evening, I stood outside Ethan’s apartment door, my heart pounding. Mrs. Chen had agreed to look after Leo until morning; I’d told her I had important work.

The door opened, and there stood Ethan, not in his usual formal suit but in casual attire—dark jeans and a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms.

“You know why I invited you here,” he turned to me, moonlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminating his profile, highlighting his perfect features.

“You think Leo is your son,” I said directly, deciding not to evade anymore. The air solidified between us, as if time itself had stopped flowing.

“Not think—know,” his tone was firm, his eyes flashing with emotions I couldn’t ignore. “I checked his birth date and did the math. He was born eight months after we broke up.”

“You have no right to investigate my son,” I felt a surge of anger, but even more fear—fear that he would take Leo away, fear that he would be like his father.

“I have every right to know if I have a son!” his voice rose, emotions showing for the first time. “Why didn’t you tell me, Olivia? Why hide it for five years?”

I took a deep breath, feeling years of pent-up emotions flooding out like a broken dam. “Because when I discovered I was pregnant, you had already disappeared. None of your contact information worked, and your family told me you’d gone to Europe. I tried to find you, but your father made sure I couldn’t reach you.”

“My father?” He looked genuinely shocked, his brow furrowed, a flash of pain crossing his eyes. “He told me you’d accepted his offer to study in Europe. He said you chose your career over me.”

“And you just believed him?” I gave a bitter smile, feeling my eyes grow moist. “You didn’t try to contact me to confirm?”

“I did try!” His voice carried regret, his fingers clenched into fists. “I called you, emailed you, even went to your apartment, but you’d moved out, and no one knew where you’d gone.”

We stood there, less than a meter apart, yet seemingly separated by eight years of time and countless lies. Moonlight spilled onto the floor between us, forming a silver river that divided us on opposite shores.

Seeing my tears, Ethan’s gaze instantly softened. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away the tear tracks on my cheek, the touch so tender it broke my heart. His hand lingered on the side of my face, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin.

“Olivia…” he whispered, his voice filled with regret and pain.

Then, before I could react, he pulled me into his embrace, his strong arms encircling me as if trying to make up for eight years of separation in one moment. His heartbeat came through his chest, strong and rapid, resonating with my own. His chin rested on top of my head, and I could feel his deep breaths, as if he were drinking in my scent.

“I should have tried harder to find you,” he whispered in my ear, his voice husky with emotion. “I should have questioned everything my father said. I should have… I should have been there, facing everything with you.”

I stood stiffly in his embrace, unsure how to respond. This hug awakened too many memories—rainy nights at Princeton, corners of the library, our first kiss, his promises whispered in my ear. Back then, we were young, naive, full of hope, believing love could conquer all. But reality had taught us a cruel lesson.

Slowly, my body relaxed, my arms involuntarily wrapping around his waist. I allowed myself, if only for a moment, to sink into this long-missed embrace. His scent, his warmth, his presence—all so familiar yet so foreign. I closed my eyes, savoring this moment of peace.

But reality quickly pulled me back. I gently pushed him away, reestablishing distance between us. No matter how warm this embrace felt, how nostalgic, the issues between us—Leo’s future, my parents’ deaths, William’s schemes—none of these would disappear because of a hug.

Ethan seemed to understand my withdrawal, giving me only a deep look, his eyes filled with complex, profound emotions. Then he walked to the bookshelf and took out a folder.

“I need you to see this,” he handed it to me, his voice low and serious. “I found this while investigating my father.”

I opened the folder to find a series of documents about the “Phoenix Algorithm,” along with photos of my parents and their research notes. My fingers gently traced my father’s familiar handwriting, feeling a pang in my heart.

“Your father stole my parents’ research?” I looked up at him in disbelief, my voice trembling with anger.

“Not just stole,” Ethan’s voice was low and pained. “Olivia, I have reason to believe my father was involved in your parents’ deaths.”

Those words were like the final puzzle piece, completing this terrible truth. My knees suddenly weakened, and I collapsed onto the sofa, the files slipping from my hands. Ethan immediately came to my side, hesitated for a moment, then gently took my hand. His hand was warm and strong, like a lifeline in the darkness.

“I’m so sorry, Olivia,” his voice filled with genuine pain. “I swear, regardless of whether he’s my father or the controller of Morgan Group, I will make him face his crimes.”