“You’re lying!” Ethan yelled, his face turning red as he lunged toward his father.

“She’s my child!”

“She isn’t,” Thomas said.

“And we both know why Julian isn’t here to claim her.”

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel rattled.

A loud click echoed through the room.

The door handle began to turn slowly.

The heavy oak door swung inward with a low, agonizing creak.

A blast of freezing winter air swept into the chapel, rustling the silk altar cloths.

A man stood in the entryway, framed by the grey afternoon light.

He wore a dark coat, flecked with melting snow.

His face was pale, his cheekbones sharp, and his dark hair was cut short.

It was Julian Caldwell.

Margaret let out a sharp, strangled gasp and took a step backward, her heel catching on the hem of her lace dress.

Ethan froze, his mouth slightly open, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Hello, mother,” Julian said.

His voice was quiet, but it filled every corner of the silent chapel.

He walked down the center aisle, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor.