Now, the truth was out, sitting on the desk between the billionaire and the child of his father’s hidden life.

Ethan unfolded the paper with slow, deliberate movements.

The handwriting was unmistakably Arthur’s—sharp, elegant, and written in thick black ink.

He read the lines in silence, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaped in his cheek.

“He wanted her to have the family name,” Ethan murmured, his eyes scanning the page a second time.

He looked up at me, his gaze intense and searching.

“Did you know about this, Maria?”

“I knew who her father was,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“But I did not want the money. I only wanted her to have a home where she wouldn’t have to hide.”

He turned away from us, walking over to the window that looked out toward the gray Hudson River.

The sky was turning a dark, bruised purple as the afternoon light faded into dusk.

“If this gets out,” Ethan said, his back still turned to the room, “the board will use it to tear the company apart.”