My daughter made a soft little noise, barely a cry. Adrian physically flinched as though the baby were evidence in a courtroom instead of his own child.
I reached toward the bedside table and picked up a blue folder.
“Prenatal DNA test. Verified lab. Legal chain of custody. Your name is on every page.”
He didn’t want to touch it. I could see the fear in his hands. Reading the truth terrified him more than hearing it.
Vanessa leaned over his shoulder.
She reacted first.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
Adrian checked the dates. Counted backward in his head.
Then memory hit him.
The final week of our marriage.
The night he stumbled home drunk to our townhouse on the Upper East Side, crying about investor pressure, his father’s expectations, his fear of losing the company empire. The night he climbed into my bed apologizing, swearing he was confused and broken. The same night he disappeared before dawn to return to her.
“You knew,” he said quietly.
“I found out after the divorce.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were too busy telling everyone I couldn’t have children.”
Vanessa’s mouth parted slightly.
