Jonathan grabbed the remote and turned on the television mounted on the brick wall.

The screen flickered to life, showing a local news anchor standing in front of a photograph of our Brooklyn building.

The headline banner at the bottom of the screen read: *Vance Empire Shaken: Custody Battle Exposes Hidden Family Secrets.*

“We are receiving reports tonight,” the anchor said, “of a shocking legal battle within the Vance real estate dynasty.”

“Sources claim that CEO Jonathan Vance is locked in a bitter custody dispute over his two secret children.”

The screen flashed a picture of me, taken years ago at an art gallery opening.

“The mother, a local Brooklyn artist, is allegedly facing allegations of child neglect.”

I felt my knees buckle.

Jonathan caught me, pulling me against his chest.

“Turn it off,” I choked out. “Turn it off.”

He shut the television screen off, plunging the room back into darkness, save for the yellow lamplight.

“He didn’t wait,” Jonathan whispered, his voice thick with realization.

“He lied to us,” I said, the terror turning into a cold, hard knot in my chest. “He never planned to wait until nine.”