I Belong To My Three Forbidden Masters

Chapter 71: Chapter 71

Drake’s pov

Tracking Elena Vane-Thorne was ridiculously simple. As a wealthy housewife whose days revolved around rigid, unvarying routines, her schedule was as predictable as the tide.

Every Tuesday at precisely two in the afternoon, after her pilates class, she occupied the same corner table at an upscale tea house on 4th Avenue.

I stood across the street, watching through the pristine glass as she sat in a pastel silk blouse, her dark, wavy hair, the exact shade and texture of Lysander’s, pinned up in an immaculate chignon.

She was casually flipping through a fashion magazine, sipping her Earl Grey, entirely oblivious to the world around her.

I was instantly irritated by her, why call yourself a son and not know a single thing in his life?

I crossed the street and stepped inside. The air inside the tea house was stiflingly warm, smelling of steamed milk and citrus.

I approached her table silently. Before she could react, I pulled out the chair directly opposite her and sat down.

Elena froze. Her manicured fingers paused over her teacup, her eyes snapping up to meet mine. She looked at me with annoyance.

"I beg your pardon?" she said with a slight accent, "This table is reserved. Who are you?"

"My name is Drake Balthazar," I said smoothly, my low, resonant voice cutting through the soft jazz playing over the speakers. "And we need to speak about your son."

Her brows pulled together in immediate confusion. "Lysander? He’s at his university dormitory. What has this got to do with you? Are you one of his professors?"

The staggering cluelessness in her voice was almost tragic. She sat there genuinely believing her modified, traumatized son was sitting in a college dorm room, eating cafeteria food, and living a mundane human life.

What a bitch!

"Lysander is not at his dormitory," I said quietly, leaning forward and resting my forearms against the table. "He hasn’t been there in weeks. He is currently under my care, recovering from a psychological collapse."

Elena blinked, her defensive posture crumbling into genuine, bewildered shock. "What? What are you talking about? I spoke to him—" She cut herself off, her eyes darting nervously. "He’s fine. He’s just sensitive. He gets overwhelmed easily."

"I would pretend I didn’t hear you say that about your son. He gets overwhelmed because his entire existence is built on a foundation of your convenient absence," I corrected coldly.

She flinched, "Excuse me? Who the hell are you to tell me..."

I reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out a thin, manila folder, and dropped it onto the white tablecloth between us. The heavy paper slid across the linen, stopping inches from her saucer.

Elena stared down at the crest printed on the top corner,

"What is this?" she asked, her voice faltering for the first time. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Open it," I purred.

With hesitation, Elena flipped the folder open. Her eyes scanned the faded yellow pages, the chemical formulas, the synthetic double-helix diagrams, and the clinical notes signed by an underground fertility specialist who had disappeared two decades ago.

Patient: Elena Vane.

Procedure: In Vitro Fertilization // Gene Modification Protocol 0-C.

Source Material: Paternal lineage modified via synthetic viral vector.

Compensatory Grant: $500,000 via anonymous offshore trust.

The color drained from her face so rapidly that her blush looked like an artificial stain against her pale skin. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.

"What’s this?"

"You can read, can’t you?" I almost rolled my eyes.

"No..." she finally whispered, her hands trembling so violently that the china clinked loudly against its saucer. "No, this was... this was just the clinic! My husband and I were trying for a baby for three years! We couldn’t conceive!"

"Your husband was gay, Elena," I deadpanned. "He never touched you. He took five hundred thousand dollars from a shadow syndicate, signed your consent forms while you were under anesthesia, and allowed an underground laboratory to alter your embryo before it was implanted in your womb."

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her lashes and running down her cheeks, ruining her carefully applied makeup. "That’s not true! He said... he said we found a specialized donor! He told me it was a miracle! He said the treatment was experimental, but it would guarantee a healthy baby!"

"And you didn’t ask questions?" I pressed, "You took a half-million-dollar payout into your joint account and asked nothing?"

"I didn’t know!" Elena wept softly, her voice cracking as she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with violent, sobbing gasps. Several patrons at nearby tables turned to stare, but a single, sharp glare from my eyes forced them to turn back to their meals in dazed indifference. "I didn’t know what they did to him! I swear to God, I didn’t know!"

"You knew he was different," I spat out softly, my crimson eyes flaring for a fraction of a second beneath the bright sunlight. "He healed fast unlike normal kids and what did you do?"

I scoffed, "you abandoned your son, your maternal instincts didn’t stretch far enough to care."

"I was terrified!" she sobbed, pulling her hands away from her face, looking at me with a desperate, pathetic plea for absolution. "I was twenty-four years old! My husband walked out on us because he was gay. I loved him! I do love him!"

"Your definition of love is remarkably convenient," I retorted smoothly, my words cutting through her tears like a scalpel. "You kept a roof over his head out of societal obligation while treating his existence like an inconvenient chore. You let him grow up isolated, anxious, and entirely undefended, handing him over to predators like Darius because you couldn’t be bothered to look up from your porcelain tea set long enough to notice what was happening under your own roof."

Elena’s breath hitched, a ragged, choking sob tearing from her throat. "Is he... is he sick? Is that what this is? Who are you? What do you want with my son?"

"My intentions with Lysander are none of your concern," I whispered, leaning in so close she could feel the arctic draft radiating from my lungs. "He is safe. He is away from the wreckage of the life you manufactured for him. And he knows every word of what is inside this folder."

Elena stared at me in absolute, horrifying shock. Her jaw hung open, her eyes wide and bloodshot as the true magnitude of what had been done to her son and her own staggering indifference to his reality finally crushed her spirit into dust.

"Oh God..." she whispered, burying her face back into her palms, her knees knocking against the underside of the table. "My baby... my poor, sweet boy..."

"Save your theatrics for someone who cares, Elena," I said, standing up smoothly from the table. I straightened my dark coat, looking down at the ruined woman weeping over her cold tea.

"Please... let me see him. Let me explain it to him—let me tell him I didn’t know!" she begged, reaching out a weak, desperate hand to grab the hem of my coat, but stopping short when the frigid air around my body burned her fingertips.

"You will stay away from him," I commanded, "If you attempt to contact him, or step foot anywhere near my estate, you will find out just how little protection your comfortable little world affords you."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the tea house, leaving her sobbing helplessly atemetery-still table over the open folder.

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