“The man who is, is still alive.”
The words don’t explode. They sink slowly, heavy and sharp.
I stare at Adrian like he just spoke a foreign language. “Alive?” My voice sounds distant, even to me.
He nods once. No drama. No comfort.
The archive room suddenly feels smaller. Files scattered across the floor, drawers hanging open like open wounds. “If Victor isn’t my father,” I say carefully, “then who is?”
Adrian hesitates.
That hesitation presses against my ribs.
“Adrian.” “I don’t have a name,” he admits. “Not yet.”
Not yet. “So you’ve known this?” I ask.
“I suspected.” “For how long?”
He exhales slowly. “Since before we got married.” The air leaves my lungs.“Of course,” I whisper.
“It wasn’t confirmed.”
“You still use it.” “I protected it.” “For who?”
“For you.”
I laughed on
