Brielle’s POV
I stared at the email for hours.
Not because of what was in it—though that would’ve been enough to shatter me. But because of what it meant. Because of who sent it.
Harry.
The same boy who used to carry my books in the third grade. The one who laughed too loudly at my jokes. The one who disappeared into Savannah’s world like he belonged there.
And now, the one who handed me the knife that would destroy her.
"She is not a Mitchell," Gregory had said the night before when I sat numbly in the living room, trying to process everything. "She's a Gregory. My daughter."
It was one sentence. But it rearranged the foundation of who I thought I was. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just let it settle in me like dust after a storm. And I held onto it because I needed something tr
