Chapter 2 Hope Amidst the Darkness
Ethan: POV
I stood at the window of my Manhattan penthouse, phone pressed to my ear, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars.
"I hope you can divorce him as soon as possible," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me. "Then we can get married."
There was a long pause on the line.
"Does it need to be so quick?" Her voice echoed with surprise and a hint of suspicion.
"I can't wait to make you my wife." The words escaped with more intensity than I'd intended, but I couldn't help it.
"We've only met a few times, haven't we?" Jane's voice carried a mix of confusion and wariness. "Why are you so eager to marry me?"
"Sometimes when you look at me, it feels like you're seeing a ghost. Have we met before? Long ago?"
The question hit me like a sucker punch. I stayed silent, gripping the phone tighter as memories I'd locked away for years came flooding back.
"That's a secret," I finally managed. "You'll know eventually."
Through the phone, I heard the ambient sounds of the hotel lobby—distant conversations, the soft ping of elevators.
When she spoke again, her tone had hardened slightly.
"Mr. Quinn, aren't you worried that marrying a soon-to-be-divorced woman might damage your reputation?"
I leaned against the cool glass of the window, watching a helicopter cut through the night sky. "I don't give a damn about gossip or rumors. Marrying you would be my privilege."
After we hung up, I remained by the window, staring blindly at the Manhattan skyline. My mind had drifted far back, to memories I rarely allowed myself to revisit.
I was seven when I returned to the Quinn family. But my story began much earlier than that.
I was only two when I was kidnapped. My parents were arguing and in that moment of distraction, someone took me.
I had only fragmented memories of this: raised voices, a door slamming, then unfamiliar hands lifting me up.
I was sold to a woman. She was well-dressed but looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and a permanent tremble in her hands.
This woman—Amelia—became my adoptive mother.
She brought me to an imposing mansion—the Miller family estate. I remember how she knelt before a man in a white lab coat, her voice quavering. "I've brought our child back."
The man—Donald Miller, my adoptive father—just sneered. "So you've finally found him? A good test subject for me."
Amelia flinched visibly before turning to me with a forced smile. "Child, this is your father now."
Donald Miller was a biochemical scientist who specialized in cellular research and experimental pharmaceuticals.
There were whispers he conducted human dissection experiments, though I never saw evidence of this firsthand.
"I'll call you S," he said, looking down at me with cold, clinical interest. "You don't leave the house without my permission. Understand?"
Even at two years old, I sensed the danger in this man with the white coat and dead eyes. I nodded, hoping my real family would find me soon.
They didn't.
The following years were a nightmare of pain and isolation.
Donald regularly injected me with experimental compounds, meticulously recording my reactions in his leather-bound notebook.
Sometimes my body rejected these substances violently—dizziness, vomiting, occasionally seizures where I'd collapse on the floor, my limbs jerking uncontrollably.
When I begged Donald for help during these episodes, he'd just scowl. "If you can't withstand this, you're not worthy to be my son."
I prayed constantly for rescue, but no one came. The experiments continued, day after day, week after week, until I lost all sense of normal life.
I didn't see Donald as a scientist pursuing noble research. I saw him as a monster. I wanted to kill him！
I realized the malevolence in my thoughts! I was afraid I might have been influenced by this demon!
Then, one day, something changed.
I heard laughter—bright, genuine laughter—floating over from the neighboring yard. How long had it been since I'd heard someone laugh? How long since I'd laughed myself?
I crept toward the wall separating our properties, drawn by this sound of joy.
When I was certain the sound came from next door, I dragged over a stool, carefully climbed up, and peered over.
What I saw took my breath away.
A little girl danced on ordinary paving stones as if they were a grand stage. Her gauzy dress floated around her, moving with the breeze.
Her light, graceful movements resembled a bird in flight, free and uncaged.
When she finished, she spun toward an unseen observer. "Daddy, was that good?" she called out, her face glowing with happiness.
I later discovered this girl practiced dancing in her yard every evening when the weather was fair.
This became my sanctuary—these stolen moments watching her dance, waiting until she finished and went inside before I returned to my prison.
When I was seven, after particularly brutal experiments, I lay numb in a garden chair, too exhausted to move.
Suddenly, a kite drifted down from the sky, landing beside me. Moments later, the doorbell rang.
No one else was home—a rare occurrence—so I dragged myself to answer it.
There she stood—the dancing girl—looking surprised to see me.
"Hi," she said brightly, stepping inside without hesitation. "I'm looking for my kite. I saw it fly into this yard."
I glanced back at the garden chair where the colorful kite lay, then picked it up and handed it to her.
I tried to smile, though I'd almost forgotten how. "Here."
She studied me with concern. "You look so sad. My dad says eating candy makes everything sweeter." She dug into her pocket and produced a wrapped caramel. "Here!"
I took it uncertainly, my voice rusty from disuse. "Thank you."
Before leaving, she asked, "What's your name? We can be friends now."
I tried to say "Ethan," but years of isolation had affected my speech. She misheard me.
"Bye, Aiden!" she called as she left.
I didn't correct her. I was just grateful to have made a friend. She was a radiant beam of light that illuminated the darkest corners of my soul.
By then, I'd given up hope of returning to my real family.
They must have forgotten me. I'd once wished only for death as escape, but now I wanted to live—to see the dancing girl again, even if I'd become some kind of poison-resistant freak.
Strangely, Amelia began spending more time at the house after I turned five.
She would bandage my wounds when Donald's experiments left me injured.
Sometimes she even pleaded with Donald when his tests went too far, though this only earned her his beatings.
At night, I sometimes heard her whisper at my bedside: "I'm so sorry."
I wanted to scream: ‘If you're sorry, why not let me go?’
Then came the day that changed everything. The dancing girl—Jane—knocked on our door unexpectedly.
"Aiden, I'm moving away! Come with us!"
When I hesitated, she continued earnestly, "Every time I ask about those needle marks on your arms, you get nervous and change the subject. Is someone hurting you? I told my dad, and we both want you to come with us."
As I stood frozen with indecision, I felt a presence behind me.
Turning, I saw Amelia standing there like a ghost.
"Amelia?" I whispered.
"I heard everything," she said softly. "I've seen you two talking lately. I haven't told Donald." She took a deep breath. "Go with her."
"I'll handle Donald. This was all my fault, and it's time to end it."
I didn't understand what she meant, but I knew she was offering freedom. "Amelia, I'm leaving," I said simply.
I followed Jane's family to Manhattan.
At the airport, Jane pointed excitedly at a man holding a photograph. "Look, a missing person poster! Aiden, that boy looks like you!"
The man with the poster spotted us and gasped. "Mr. Ethan Quinn? Is that you?"
I turned numbly, stunned to see my own younger face on the poster. They were still looking for me！
After a phone call, a haggard woman rushed in, her eyes red from years of crying. "Ethan, it's really you. Mommy's so sorry."
I turned to Jane. "These are my real family. I have to go home now. Thank you for everything, Jane."
The memory faded as I turned away from the window, Jane's question still echoing in my mind: "Why are you so determined to marry me?"
‘Because you are my light. Because of you, I exist.’