Mira didn't show her mother the second text.
She sat frozen in the passenger seat the entire drive home, phone clutched so tightly in her lap her knuckles ached, the words looping over and over in her head until they stopped sounding like language and just became noise. Ask Adrian who really fathered that baby. Because it wasn't Marcus Voss.
It couldn't be true. It was exactly the kind of thing someone cruel enough to send anonymous texts about a dead infant would say, a knife twisted deeper just to watch the damage spread. Except every instinct Mira had learned to trust, the ones that read a room before anyone spoke a word, the ones that had kept her steady through years of counting dollars and holding her chin up in rooms that wanted her small, told her this wasn't random cruelty.
Who
