“That was a private medical screening,” Vivian whispered, stepping closer to her son. “You had no right to release that.”

“The family court judge disagreed,” I replied.

Carter’s eyes scanned the first page, his face losing what little color it had left.

“Look at the second page, Carter,” I said.

A chandelier above us clinked softly as the ocean breeze came through the tall French doors.

The salt air did nothing to clear the sudden, suffocating heat in the room.

“Read the diagnosis,” I said.

Carter did not read it aloud, so I did it for him.

“Azoospermia,” I said, the medical term hanging in the quiet air of the ballroom. “Permanent and irreversible sterility, resulting from your childhood hospitalization.”

A collective murmur broke out among the guests near the champagne fountain.

Sloane Whitaker stepped back into the shadow of a floral pillar, her face suddenly blank.

“You’ve known since you were twenty-four, Carter,” I said, taking a step toward him. “And your mother knew it, too.”

“This is a lie,” Vivian said, though her voice lacked its usual sharp authority. “This is a fabricated report from a biased laboratory.”