James Whitmore was a household name in Manhattan business circles. By the age of 45, he had built a tech empire spanning three continents. Interviewers called him a “visionary,” and Forbes magazine had listed him among the 100 richest people for five consecutive years. But none of these titles mattered to James anymore.
His wife, Evelyn, had died two years earlier.
She was the center of his world, the calm in his storm. After the car accident that took her life, James withdrew from everything—media, work, even the social world. He didn’t touch alcohol, but grief aged him faster than whiskey. The only reason he persevered was Emily, their daughter, who was only five when Evelyn died.
It was a chilly October afternoon when James and Emily drove through upstate New York. James was returning from a board meeting in Albany and decided to take the scenic route. Emily sat in the backseat, gazing at the trees in full autumn bloom, a notebook on her lap.
“Dad, I’m hungry,” she said quietly.
Emily was busy pouring too much syrup on the pancakes, unaware of the tension.
James leaned back, his heart pounding. There was only one way to find out the truth.
Test DNA.
James couldn’t sleep that night.
Back in Manhattan, long after Emily had fallen asleep with her teddy bear, James sat alone in his office, staring at a photo of Anna he’d secretly taken at a restaurant. He wasn’t proud of the impulse—but something deep inside him told him it wasn’t just a coincidence.
He wasn’t hunting ghosts. This woman resembled Evelyn in a way that couldn’t be explained by coincidence.
And the mention of foster families? That clinched it.
