Chapter 256: Kain Samson Wants A Reunion

The excuse of having amnesia worked like a charm.

The Samson family—my mother, Evelyn, my father, Arthur, and my two wildly protective older cousins—didn’t care for a single second that I couldn’t remember my childhood, the family business, or my favorite foods.

The fact that their precious, fragile son had not only woken up from a three-year coma, but was suddenly thriving, breathing effortlessly, and standing on strong, healthy legs was enough of a miracle for them to shed endless tears of relief.

They showered me with an almost suffocating amount of love and luxury. The Samson Corporation made the McCoy Empire look like a regional branch office, yet my new family treated their multi-billion-dollar shipping empire like a secondary priority compared to making sure I drank my morning tea and didn’t catch a chill.

Every stranger’s praise, every extravagant gift, and every gentle touch from my ’new’ mother was a bizarre experience. But beneath the facade of the recovered, docile Samson heir, my mind was running drills at full speed.

Every single day was a battle against my own instincts. My body was healthy, stronger than it had been even in my prime, and every fiber of my soul screamed at me to hijack a sports car from the estate garage and speed straight toward the coastal lodge. I wanted to smash through the gates, grab Reid by his shirt collar, pull him into a kiss, and steal our daughter into my arms.

But I was a Captain. I knew better than to rush onto the ice without a strategy.

If a complete stranger—the billionaire heir of the Samson Corporation, a man who was supposed to be a frail recluse—showed up on Reid’s doorstep claiming to be his dead husband reincarnated, Reid wouldn’t hug me. He’d think I was a sick impersonator sent by a rival or the media to mock his grief. He would destroy me before I could even finish a sentence.

I needed an opening. A situation where I could get close to him, let him smell me, let him see the way I moved, and force those buried instincts to recognize his Omega before his brain could rationalize it away.

Exactly one month after waking up, I got my chance.

"Are you sure you’re up for this, sweetheart?" Evelyn asked anxiously, adjusting the lapels of my bespoke dark blue suit as we stood in the foyer of the Samson estate. "It’s a high-profile charity gala. The entire Seattle elite will be there. If you feel tired or overwhelmed by the crowd, we can leave immediately."

"I’m sure, Mom," I said smoothly, offering her a reassuring, polished smile that I’d practiced in the mirror for three days. "It’s time I stepped out into the world. Besides... the McCoy family will be hosting, won’t they?"

"Yes, Fidora McCoy organized the event," Arthur chimed in, checking his pocket watch. "Though I hear her son, Reid, rarely attends these things anymore. Poor boy hasn’t been the same since his husband passed away last year. Terrible tragedy."

My heart gave a violent, heavy thud against my ribs at the mention of his name, but my face remained an unreadable mask of cool composure.

"Is that so?" I murmured softly, sliding my hands into my trousers pockets as my eyes glinted with sharp, tactical focus. "Then it’s a good thing we’re going."

The game plan was set. I wasn’t going to crash his private home like a madman. I was going to walk right into his world, under the glittering chandeliers of Seattle’s highest society, and make my move when he least expected it.

I was coming home, rookie.

...

The marble halls of the McCoy Grand Ballroom blazed with crystal chandeliers, but to me, the entire spectacle was nothing more than noise.

My parents stood proudly at my flanks, introducing their ’miracle heir’ to Seattle’s highest echelon. Every CEO, politician, and socialite scrambled for a word with the reclusive Samson son, marveling at my sudden recovery. I played the part seamlessly—nodding politely, offering smooth, measured smiles—while my eyes relentlessly scanned the room over their heads.

I saw Brad off near the champagne tower, looking visibly older, his shoulders carrying a quiet, permanent weight. I saw Fidora commanding the room with her usual razor-sharp, formidable presence, executing every move as the ruthless Alpha head of the McCoy Empire.

I even caught sight of Marina near the arched terrace, nursing a glass of wine with an expression that looked far too subdued for a party. I almost broke at the sight of her, but I remained calm. One thing at a time.

But Reid wasn’t there.

"He won’t come down," I overheard a nearby executive murmuring to his wife. "Fidora practically ordered him to make an appearance for the press, but Reid won’t leave the private wing. Ever since Kain Evans died, the boy only exists for that baby. Doesn’t care about the family business, doesn’t care about the media."

My heart slammed against my ribs, a sharp, violent throb of pure longing tearing through my chest.

He was here. He was under the very same roof.

I didn’t waste another second. While my father engaged the Samson Corporation’s chief logistics officer in a loud discussion, I took a slow step backward into the shadows of a grand marble pillar. Slipping away from the crowd was effortless.

I knew this estate like the back of my hand. I knew every corridor, every hidden hallway, and every shortcut leading away from the public ballrooms straight into the East Wing—our wing. The wing where Reid had carried me when my body felt too heavy, where we had mapped out our future, where he had held me through the long, terrifying nights of my pregnancy.

My polished dress shoes made no sound as I glided past the security doors, slipping effortlessly into the quiet, carpeted sanctuary of the private quarters. The roaring music of the charity gala faded into a distant, muffled hum.

I walked down the long, dimly lit hallway, my breath catching in my throat with every step I took toward the door at the end.

I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I pushed the door open. It swung inward without a sound.

The room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of a single corner lamp and the pale moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Standing by the glass, his broad back turned to the door, was Reid.

He was wearing a dark, unbuttoned suit jacket over a black shirt, his blonde hair slightly longer than I remembered, his silhouette taller, broader, and agonizingly familiar. Beside him sat a pristine, wooden baby crib.

And then, the air hit me.

The moment I stepped across the threshold, my new, fully functional Omega senses flared to life. The scent of frozen pine—rich, heavy, and laced with a deep, lingering ache of grief—flooded my nose. Beneath it, wrapping around the room like a soft blanket, was the sweet, undeniable scent of our daughter: warm formula, fresh cotton sheets, and soft baby powder.

When I was a ghost, I couldn’t smell a single thing. I had reached for them in the dark, desperate to feel their warmth, only to breathe in empty air. But now, the sheer, visceral reality of their presence hit my chest like a freight train. My knees went weak, a violent tremor running down my legs as tears instantly welled in my eyes.

Crack.

A floorboard gave a microscopic creak beneath my shoe.

"Who’s there?"