Dr. Hayes studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
“All right. A few minutes only. And tomorrow I want documentation showing you really are his father.”
They walked down a quiet hallway to a room at the end. The doctor opened the door carefully.
“Don’t wake him,” he said softly. “He needs the sleep.”
Stanton nodded and stepped into the dim room. Alex lay under a white hospital blanket. In the low glow of the night light, his face looked even paler. A bruise darkened one eye, and his upper lip was split. Even like this—beaten, exhausted—he looked startlingly like Stanton had at that age. Same face shape. Same brows.
Michael moved closer and sat in the chair beside the bed. As he looked at the boy, a storm of emotions rose in him: guilt for fifteen years of absence, anger at whoever had hurt him, and a tenderness so unfamiliar it almost unsettled him.
Then Alex stirred and opened his eyes a little. For a few seconds he looked at Stanton without recognition. Then it clicked.
“You…” he whispered, voice rough with sleep. “The guy from the restaurant.”
“Yeah,” Stanton said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
Alex tried to sit up, winced, and sank back onto the pillow.
“Fine.” He looked away. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right. You disappeared so fast…”
The boy said nothing, staring stubbornly toward the wall.
“Alex,” Stanton said gently, “I need to know who did this to you.”
“Nobody,” Alex said quickly. “I fell down stairs.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Alex turned back to him, and there was challenge in his eyes now.
“Why do you care? Who are you to me?”
Stanton took a slow breath. The moment had come sooner than he expected.
“I’m your father, Alex.”
The boy jerked as if struck, his face twisting.
“No, you’re not,” he hissed. “My dad is dead.”
“Is that what your mother told you?”
“Yeah. She said he died when I was little.”
Stanton lowered his head. He couldn’t blame Nina for the lie. Maybe it had been easier than explaining why Alex had no father.
“She said that to protect you,” he said quietly. “The truth is, I left her when I found out she was pregnant. I wasn’t ready to take responsibility. It was selfish. Cowardly.”
Alex stared at him with disbelief and anger.
“If you’re my father, why are you showing up now? Why not before?”
“Because I didn’t know about you,” Stanton said honestly. “Your mother never told me you were born.”
“And you…”
“I never looked for you.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Alex turned toward the wall again, and Stanton saw his shoulders tremble slightly.
“Alex,” he said softly. “I need to know where your mom is. She may be in danger.”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Please.” Stanton touched his shoulder lightly. “I want to help.”
Alex turned sharply, tears in his eyes now.
“You can’t help,” he said. “Nobody can. They took my mom a week ago. Said they’d let her go when I…” He stopped and bit his lip.
“When you what?” Stanton asked, every muscle tightening.
“When I did what they wanted,” Alex said quietly.
“Samir Gazi?” Stanton asked, though he already knew.
Alex looked at him, startled.
“How do you know that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stanton said. “What did they want you to do?”
The boy looked away again.
“Can’t say.”
“Alex.” Stanton leaned closer. “I can help. I have money, connections. But I need the truth.”
“Why?” the boy asked, suspicion plain in his voice. “You didn’t think about us for fifteen years.”
The words landed hard. The boy was right. What right did he have to step into this life now?
“You’re right,” Stanton said quietly. “I don’t have an excuse. But I’m here now, and I’m not walking away until I help you and your mother.”
Something in his voice must have reached the boy, because Alex turned his head and studied him.
“You really can help?”
