He flipped it open, revealing a certified death certificate with a gold seal.

“The real Tyler Callahan died in a private clinic in Zurich six years ago,” Agent Miller said.

My husband—the man I had slept next to for three years—stared at the document.

The color drained from his face, leaving his skin a dull, chalky gray under the harsh sun.

“This is a fabrication,” Victoria said, her voice rising an octave.

“It’s a matter of federal record, Mrs. Callahan,” Miller replied.

He turned back to the man in handcuffs.

“Your real name is Julian Vance.”

I felt a cold sweat break out along the back of my neck.

“Julian?” I whispered, the name tasting foreign and bitter on my tongue.

He wouldn’t look at me.

He kept his eyes locked on the stone tiles of the terrace.

“And the woman next to you,” Miller continued, gesturing toward Chloe, “is not your mistress.”

Chloe pressed her back against the limestone pillar, her fingers clawing at the stone.

“She is your biological sister, Chloe Vance,” the agent said.