do not belong to him.”
The wind seemed to stop. The world contracted to the size of the manila envelope in Marcus’s gloved hand.
“What are you talking about?” I whispered.
I handed the twins to Dr. Helena Cross, my private physician who had just stepped out of the second SUV, before snatching the envelope. I tore it open. The stark black ink on the laboratory letterhead blurred before my eyes focused on the crucial line.
Probability of biological paternity: 0.00% — Graham Harrington.
A ringing started in my ears. I had suspected Graham was unfaithful—hence the quiet DNA swab I’d managed to secure from him months ago—but I knew I hadn’t been. I had never touched another man.
I scanned further down the page. Potential paternal line match: Harrington, Conrad James.
Conrad. Graham’s father. Vivian’s late husband, dead for seven years.
I looked up, the cold sinking past my
skin and straight into my bones. I stared at Vivian. The matriarch was no longer looking at Graham, who was still sobbing in the snow, or at Chloe, who was quietly trying to sneak back into the house. Vivian was staring at me, her face a mask of absolute, terrified recognition.
“You did this,” I breathed, the realization a physical weight crushing my lungs.
Vivian’s jaw tightened. “I did what was necessary for the Harrington legacy.”
“Mother?” Graham croaked from the snow. “What is she talking about?”
Before Vivian could speak, another car pulled through the gates—a battered sedan. A woman scrambled out, clutching a leather binder to her chest. It was Nora Vance, the private nurse from the exclusive Harrington fertility clinic. She was the nurse who had abruptly vanished three months into my pregnancy, the one Vivian had dismissed as “mentally unstable.”
“Ms. Vale!” Nora shouted, running toward
