For eight years, I had believed I was incapable of having a family.

Now, my real family was five feet away from me, sleeping on a faded plaid sofa while my old life burned to the ground.

My phone screen lit up again.

It wasn’t Harrison.

It was a restricted number.

I hesitated, then swiped to answer.

“Adrian,” Celeste’s voice was sharp, cold, and entirely stripped of her usual social grace.

“Why are you calling me, Celeste?” I asked, walking into the hallway to keep my voice down.

“Your lawyer is lying to the board,” she hissed. “I had nothing to do with Eleanor’s arrangement with Dr. Mercer.”

“I have the bank records, Celeste,” I said. “You signed the authorization for the transfer from the joint account.”

“Eleanor told me it was for a real estate investment!” she snapped. “If you ruin me, Adrian, I will make sure the press hears about your mother’s clinic years ago. I will drag your family name through the mud.”

“My family name is already dirty,” I said. “And I don’t care about the press anymore.”