At the bottom of the page, the conclusion was printed in bold black ink.

“The probability of paternity is 99.99%.”

“Adrian Whitmore is biologically matched as the father of Noah Caldwell and Lila Caldwell.”

I stared at the names.

Noah.

Lila.

The twins I had watched from a distance, believing they belonged to another man.

The children my mother had convinced me were the product of Maren’s infidelity.

They were mine.

My blood.

My children.

A heavy ache expanded in my chest, a mixture of profound relief and suffocating anger.

Eight years had been stolen from us.

Eight years of birthdays, scraped knees, and bedtime stories.

“Are you alright, Adrian?” Marcus asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I am their father,” I said.

My voice sounded thin in the quiet car.

“It is official.”

“It is black and white.”

Marcus nodded slowly, turning the steering wheel as we merged onto the highway heading north.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“If we go public with this, Eleanor will freeze your shares in the trust.”

“The board will call an emergency meeting by morning.”