Her spine was perfectly straight, her hands clasped over her silver-handled cane.

She looked up at me, her eyes cold and analytical.

“You are making a scene, Vivian,” Margaret said, her voice low and steady.

“No, Margaret,” I said. “I am delivering a birth announcement.”

I held out the Birch & Lowe envelope.

Adrian stepped down from the altar, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the stone floor.

“Security,” he called out, his voice rising in panic. “Get her out of here.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Whitmore,” Grace Monroe said, stepping between Adrian and me.

Grace reached into her briefcase and pulled out a blue-backed legal document.

“We have already filed the paternity petition with the New York Supreme Court,” Grace said.

“You’re insane,” Celeste hissed from the altar steps, her veil trembling. “Adrian, do something!”

Adrian reached for my arm, but I stepped back.

“Look at the papers, Margaret,” I said to the older woman.

Margaret did not move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she reached out her gloved hand and took the envelope from me.

She tore the top edge with a gold-plated pen she kept in her purse.

She pulled out the DNA profile from Birch & Lowe.

It showed a 99.99 percent probability of paternity.

Beneath the DNA profile was a copy of the Whitmore Family Trust Agreement.

I had highlighted section four, paragraph twelve.

“What is this?” Adrian asked, his voice shaking as he stood beside his mother.

Margaret ignored him.

She adjusted her reading glasses, her eyes scanning the highlighted text.

The words on the page were very clear.

The trust mandated an immediate transfer of thirty-two percent of the family’s conglomerate voting shares to any legitimate first-born heir.

I watched Margaret’s face turn from pale to gray.

The paper in her hand began to tremble.

“Mother?” Adrian asked, his brow furrowed. “What does it say?”