He had let me believe I was a mother by some stroke of divine luck, while he kept the real mother living in terror.

The sheer scale of the betrayal made the room tilt.

I had spent twenty years thanking him for giving me a family.

I had spent twenty years feeling guilty for not being able to give him a biological child of his own.

All the while, he had his child, and he had me exactly where he wanted me.

“Are you feeling alright?” Richard asked, taking a step toward me. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said, backing up until my spine hit the edge of the sink.

“I called Claire,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes never leaving my face. “She said you’ve been acting strange today.”

“I’m just tired, Richard.”

“She said you asked her a lot of questions about her birth records.”

He took another step.

The distance between us was shrinking, and I could smell the damp wool of his coat and the faint scent of his expensive cologne.