“Leave my house.”
The words didn’t ring out dramatically. They dropped with cold precision, final and merciless, like a steel gate crashing shut against polished wood. Inside the enormous, sterile living room of the Bennett Estate, nobody gasped. Nobody shifted in their seat. It felt as though every ounce of oxygen had been drained from the room, leaving behind an empty shell where my life had once existed.
I was still holding the report.
My hands shook so badly that the stiff paper rattled like brittle leaves caught in a storm. Crestview Genetics was stamped across the top in neat, emotionless lettering that felt colder than winter. Underneath was a maze of numbers and genetic markers I couldn’t understand, followed by the sentence that had burned my world to the ground:
Probability of Paternity: 0%.
“The boy isn’t mine,” my husband, Ryan, had said moments earlier.
