Lily Thompson
I forced my face to stay still. No flinch, no tremor. Just a blank stare. If she wanted a reaction, she wouldn’t get it from me.
The man I’d called father all my life—his shadow, his anger, his rules—wasn’t even mine. And the man who was mine, the one who thought about me enough to leave me a will, had been gone before I could even open my eyes to him.
I dug my nails into my palm under the table, hard enough to sting, just to anchor myself. My throat wanted to close, to choke on the ache rising up, but I swallowed it down. She couldn’t see that.
Her eyes searched me, like she was hoping for some soft c***k in my armor. I kept my face smooth, my tone clipped, my shoulders straight.
“After he died, I was twenty nine with a newborn,” she went on. “Your grandparents were gon
