“These are your sons,” I said.

He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

“That’s impossible,” he said, stepping back against his desk. “You know what the doctors said. I’m sterile, Emma.”

I reached into my handbag and pulled out a thick yellow envelope.

I laid it on his glass desk, right next to his laptop.

“Your mother’s doctors said that,” I told him. “The real medical reports tell a different story.”

He reached for the envelope with trembling fingers.

He pulled out the documents, his eyes scanning the fertility clinic’s original letterhead.

I watched his face pale as he read the blood-test results and the DNA profiles I had attached.

He touched the paper, his thumb tracing the seal of the laboratory.

“She told me you cheated,” he whispered, looking up, his eyes filled with a sudden, agonizing realization.

“She showed me the test results showing I couldn’t have children.”

“Victoria lied to you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “She paid off the clinic so you would let me go.”

Noah stepped closer to my side, watching his father with that quiet, intense gaze.

Lucas had wandered over to a silver model of a yacht on the shelf, touching the mast.

Alexander sank into his leather chair, the papers clutching in his hand.

His entire world, the empire built on his family’s legacy, seemed to tilt.

“She did this,” he murmured, his voice hardening as the truth settled in.

His gaze shifted from the documents back to our sons.

The anger in his eyes was replaced by a deep, hollow shock.

Just then, the glass door to the office suite clicked open behind us.

A sharp, familiar pair of designer heels clicked against the hardwood threshold.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned around.

Victoria Sterling stood in the doorway, her Chanel coat draped over her shoulders, her eyes locking onto mine.