But Jessica didn’t do any of those things. She didn’t move toward me. Instead, she reached into an expensive leather handbag and pulled out a crisp, manila envelope.
“This is for you,” she said, her tone unnervingly bright, like she was handing me a gift at a graduation party. “It’s a surprise!”
I took the envelope, my fingers trembling. My father stayed behind me, a silent, protective sentinel. I slid the contents out. It wasn’t a letter. It wasn’t a photo of our shared past. It was a DNA test—clinical, cold, and printed on heavy, professional paper.
I stared at the black-and-white charts, the names, the percentages. Jessica pointed toward my father with a manicured fingernail, her expression one of helpful clarification.
“This proves that this man is not your biological father, Dylan,” she said calmly. “I had the test done privately after you were born. I suspected Greg wasn’t the one, but he was… well, he was the better man at the time. I never told him. I kept the results, of course. I didn’t think it mattered then. But now, with everything you’ve accomplished—with the company and the press—I thought you deserved the truth.”
She smiled then, a gentle, predatory expression. “You’re mine, honey. We can finally begin our lives from the start. Together.”
