Chapter 3

I knelt beside the fountain. Lily was sitting on the stone edge, kicking her little patent leather shoes against the marble. Her eyes were red.

"Hi there," I said softly. "I love your dress."

She looked up at me—and my whole world stopped.

Those eyes. God, those eyes. Exactly like mine. Down to the tiny fleck of gold in the left iris.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then, quieter: "Mommy says I look messy."

The word Mommy hit like a bullet.

I swallowed hard. Forced a smile.

"Well, I think you look perfect. Like a little princess."

Her face lit up—just barely—like a candle that had almost gone out.

"Really?"

"Really."

She studied me for a long moment. Then she did something that shattered every wall I'd built over the last three years.

She reached out and touched my cheek.

"You're warm," she said. "Mommy's never warm."

I couldn't speak. My throat closed completely. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I held them—God, I held them—because if I broke now, I'd never stop.

"Lily!"

Monica's voice sliced through the moment like a blade.

She marched over, heels stabbing the marble, and grabbed Lily's arm—hard enough that the child winced.

"What did I tell you about talking to strangers?" She yanked Lily behind her, then turned to me with a smile so poisonous it could curdle milk.

"Miss Whitmore. How unexpected." Her eyes raked over me—assessing, dismissing. "I didn't realize corporate raiders attended charity events."

"I donated two million tonight," I said calmly. "What did you donate, Monica? Besides someone else's child?"

The color drained from her face.

For one delicious second, fear cracked through that perfect mask.

Then she recovered. Laughed—high, brittle, fake.

"I don't know what you're implying, but I'd be careful. Alexander doesn't take kindly to people who threaten his family."

She pulled Lily closer—possessively. Lily squirmed but said nothing.

I stood slowly, smoothing my gown.

"I'm not threatening anyone," I said. "Yet."

I turned and walked away. Each step felt like swallowing glass.

Behind me, I heard Lily's small voice:

"Mommy, who was that lady?"

And Monica's sharp reply:

"Nobody, darling. She's nobody."

I made it to the bathroom before I collapsed. Locked the door. Pressed my back against the cold tile and slid to the floor.

The sobs came—violent, silent, ripping through me like shrapnel.

My baby didn't know me. She called another woman Mommy. A woman who grabbed her like property and flinched at her touch.

My phone buzzed. A text from June.

[DNA lab confirmed. 99.97% match. Lily Kensington is your biological daughter. Also—I dug deeper into Monica Lane. You need to see this. Call me NOW.]

My tears stopped.

Something colder, harder, sharper took their place.

I wiped my face. Fixed my lipstick. Stood up.

Whatever June had found—I was ready.