In the grand, modern estate of the Yeats Family in New York, the serene and dignified atmosphere was interrupted by a strange and unsettling discovery.
Marcia Kelvin, a woman of captivating beauty, stared at the surveillance footage in disbelief. At forty-five years old, she still radiated an elegance and youthfulness that defied her age. Her skin was flawless, her features timeless. Anyone would have assumed she was a woman much younger than her years, and had she been a part of John's life, he would have been taken aback by how similar she looked to Queenie—her beauty was of the same exquisite nature.
Beside her, standing with a look of confusion, was her husband, Nick Yeats. John had seen him not long ago at the Maple Hotel, a tall, poised man in a sharp suit. As the true head of the Yeats Family, Nick commanded authority effortlessly.
The couple was watching a surveillance video from the hotel, and at its center were John and Queenie. The footage showed John carrying Queenie into the hotel, obscuring her face. But when they exited, her face was clearly visible.
Marcia's voice trembled as she muttered to herself, "Why does this girl look so much like me?" She stared at the screen, frozen by the bizarre familiarity of Queenie. In her mind, it was as though she was seeing a reflection of her younger self.
Beside her, Nick, equally baffled, spoke quietly, "Do you think she might be... our daughter from twenty-five years ago?"
Before Nick could finish his thought, Marcia sharply interrupted, her voice tight with emotion. "No, don't even think that. She's been gone for so long." Her eyes clouded over, and there was a noticeable pang of grief in her gaze. Their daughter had tragically passed away in infancy, a loss that neither of them ever fully overcame.
Nick immediately apologized, his voice soft. "I shouldn't have brought that up. I'm sorry."
But just as the air of sorrow seemed to settle over them, Nick's phone rang. It was the hospital.
"Mr. Yeats, after running the genetic tests, the results show a 99.5% match between you and Miss Yeats," the voice on the other end said.
The words hit like a thunderclap. Nick's hand trembled as he processed the news. "What? She... she's our daughter?"
Marcia, who had been holding her breath, finally let out a shaky gasp. "How could that be? Our daughter—she died so many years ago."
The shocking revelation left the couple reeling. Their daughter had passed away before they could fully grasp the weight of the loss, and now they were being told that Queenie might indeed be their long-lost child.
"Maybe only Bart Dora, the Taoist priest from DT Mountain, knows what happened," Nick suggested, still in shock.
"I'll go with you," Marcia responded, the determination to find the truth igniting in her.
Many years ago, after their daughter's tragic death, the couple had entrusted her body to Bart, a Taoist priest from DT Mountain. He claimed he would ensure their daughter was properly laid to rest. But now, in the face of this mysterious connection, both Nick and Marcia knew they had to seek answers from Bart.
When they arrived at DT Mountain, the Taoist priest Bart was there, awaiting them. The conversation that followed was cryptic, leaving them with more questions than answers. Nick asked directly, "Bart, how could you not know what happened to our daughter? You took her body. What happened to her?"
Bart shook his head, looking genuinely puzzled. "I did what my master, Ben Clare, instructed me to do. I gave your daughter's body to him."
"Where is he now? Can we meet him?" Nick pressed, eager for answers.
Bart offered a sad smile. "His whereabouts are a mystery. The last time he visited was three years ago."
The couple stood in stunned silence. It seemed they might never get the answers they so desperately sought.
As they headed back home, Nick tried to reassure Marcia, though his mind was still racing with questions. "At least we now know Queenie is our daughter," he said softly.
Marcia nodded, her eyes bright with a mixture of hope and disbelief. "It's almost as if fate is playing a cruel joke on us. Our daughter has been alive all this time."
Back in Greenland Villa, Queenie remained blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding with the Yeats family. Having just finished a shower, she was lounging on the sofa, dressed in a delicate lace nightdress. Her long, fair legs were exposed, and she stretched and twisted her neck occasionally, trying to ease the discomfort.
John, noticing her movements, approached her with concern. "What's wrong, Queenie? Does your neck hurt?"
Queenie sighed, a faint wince on her face. "Yes. I've been sitting in that office chair for too long, and now my neck is stiff."
John, ever attentive, smiled and said, "Let me give you a massage."
He sat down next to her, his fingers expertly massaging her shoulders and neck. As he worked, he infused vital energy into his touch, the warm energy spreading through her muscles. The relief was instant—Queenie sighed in contentment, the tension in her body easing under his skilled hands.
"Much better," she murmured, grateful for his help.
John chuckled, thinking to himself, 'I'm glad I could help. But I wonder how much longer this strange connection between Queenie and the Yeats family will continue.'