Chapter 3

[Rose's POV]

Across the ballroom, near a cluster of distinguished older gentlemen, stood a man who made my heart stop beating.

The facial structure. The jawline. The way he held his shoulders.

He was perhaps thirty-five years old, impeccably dressed in what was clearly a custom-tailored suit. His dark hair was styled in the modern fashion, and he moved with the confident bearing of someone accustomed to command. But his profile – God almighty, his profile – was identical to my husband's.

My husband died in Normandy in 1944. This man wasn't even born then. But the resemblance...

As I moved closer, fragments of conversation reached me:

"...Sullivan Group's quarterly projections exceeded expectations again..."

"...Christopher's strategic vision is remarkable for someone his age..."

"...the family's diversification into renewable energy was brilliant..."

Christopher Sullivan. The man from the automobile ride.

My legs carried me forward without conscious thought. This couldn't be coincidence. The mathematical probability of such precise genetic resemblance occurring randomly was virtually zero.

Unless.

Unless James survived. Unless he lived long enough to have children. Unless those children carried forward the family's genetic legacy.

"Excuse me," I said, approaching the group with as much composure as I could manage. "Are you Christopher Sullivan?"

He turned toward me, and I nearly gasped aloud. The eyes. They're James's eyes. The same intelligent curiosity, the same depth.

"Yes, I am," he said politely, though clearly puzzled by my direct approach. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"Not exactly." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I was wondering – is James Sullivan still... is he well?"

Christopher's expression shifted to surprise. "My grandfather? Yes, he's quite healthy for someone approaching eighty. Though I must say, it's unusual for someone your age to ask about him personally."

Grandfather. James is Christopher's grandfather.

The room seemed to tilt around me. My little James, my six-year-old boy who built atoms from wooden blocks, lived long enough to become a grandfather.

"He's truly still alive?" I whispered, unable to control the wonder in my voice.

"Of course he's alive. Why would you..." Christopher studied my face more carefully. "Forgive me, but do I know you? There's something familiar..."

Before I could respond, a stern voice interrupted.

"Rose! What are you doing?"

William appeared at my elbow, his academic bearing rigid with disapproval. "You're making a spectacle of yourself, young lady. These people don't need to be bothered by your inappropriate questions."

Father. The original Rose's memories provided context – a physics professor who valued reputation above family warmth.

"I was simply making conversation," I said carefully.

"You were interrogating one of Boston's most prominent business leaders about his family," William snapped. "It's embarrassing. We're leaving."

"Actually, Professor Evans," Christopher interjected smoothly, "your daughter's questions were quite reasonable. Though I am curious about her interest in my grandfather."

William's face flushed red. "She has no business being curious about anything beyond her studies. Rose has always been... difficult. Antisocial. This evening was meant to help her develop proper social skills, but clearly..."

Antisocial. The word struck me like a slap. I thought of all the colleagues I'd worked beside at Los Alamos, all the careful professional relationships I'd cultivated.

"I am not antisocial," I said quietly, but something in my tone made both men step back. "I simply refuse to tolerate disrespect."

"Disrespect?" William's voice rose dangerously. "You just destroyed your sister's expensive device! You embarrassed our family in front of Boston's elite! And now you're interrogating complete strangers about their personal family matters!"

The weight of his disappointment, the shame in his voice – it reminded me too painfully of the original Rose's memories.

"Rachel was humiliating me publicly," I replied, trying to keep my composure. "I merely defended myself."

"Defended yourself?" William laughed bitterly. "Rose, you poured champagne on a phone worth more than most people's monthly salary! At a charity gala! In front of everyone!"

Christopher Sullivan cleared his throat diplomatically. "Perhaps I should—"

"No, Mr. Sullivan, please don't leave on our account," William said quickly, his face flushing with mortification. "My daughter clearly has no understanding of appropriate behavior. This is exactly the kind of scene that..."

Scene. The word triggered something deep in the original Rose's memories – years of being told she was too dramatic, too emotional, too much trouble.

"I was standing up for myself," I said, but my voice was shaking now. "I won't be treated like—"

"Like what? Like the difficult, ungrateful child you've always been?" William's voice cut through the ballroom noise. "Do you have any idea how this reflects on our family? On me?"

The memories were crashing together now – the original Rose's years of feeling worthless, unwanted, and my own grief at losing James, at being separated from my son for eighty years.

"You don't understand," I whispered, pressing my hands to my temples as the dual sets of memories began to blur and collide. "I just... I needed to know about James. I needed to know if he..."

"James?" William's confusion turned to fury. "You're obsessing over complete strangers now? Making up fantasy connections? Rose, this behavior is unacceptable!"

Too much. The emotions were too much. The original Rose's pain mixing with my own desperation, the weight of two lifetimes of loss and longing.

"He's not a stranger!" I cried out, and several nearby guests turned to stare. "He's my... he's..."

But I couldn't explain. How could I tell him that James Sullivan was my son? That I'd held him as a baby, watched him build atoms from wooden blocks, kissed him goodnight before rushing to save Los Alamos from a radiation disaster?

"Enough!" William raised his hand, his face purple with rage and embarrassment. "You've humiliated us enough for one evening!"

I saw his hand coming toward me, but it was the emotional overload that broke me, not the threat of physical violence. Eighty years of separation from my child, the original Rose's lifetime of feeling rejected and misunderstood, the overwhelming shock of learning James was alive – all of it crashed together in my mind like colliding particles.

The ballroom spun violently around me. The crystal chandeliers became spinning stars, the marble floor tilted and swayed. Too much memory, too much emotion, too much...

"Rose!"

The last thing I heard before darkness claimed me was Christopher's concerned voice calling my name, and the sound of crystal glasses hitting marble as I collapsed to the hotel's elegant floor.

James, I thought as consciousness faded. My little James is alive.