Her expression turned cold immediately.
“No one steals garbage that was already thrown out.”
“You’re right,” I answered. “I was simply returning faulty merchandise.”
Adrian shoved the hospital door closed.
“That’s enough. Is the baby mine or isn’t she?”
My daughter let out a tiny sound, hardly even a cry. Adrian visibly recoiled as if the infant were courtroom evidence rather than his own child.
I reached toward the bedside table and lifted a blue folder.
“Prenatal DNA results. Certified laboratory. Documented legal custody chain. Your name appears on every page.”
He didn’t want to touch it. I could see the fear trembling through his hands. Reading the truth frigh.ten.ed him more than hearing it.
Vanessa leaned over his shoulder.
She reacted before he did.
“That’s impossible,” she murmured.
Adrian checked the dates. Counted backward silently.
Then the memory struck.
The last week of our marriage.
The night he staggered home drunk to our townhouse on the Upper East Side, sobbing about investor pressure, his father’s demands, and his fear of losing the family business empire.
