I couldn’t wait any longer.
The anonymous note sat like a live wire in my pocket for two days—paternity test or exposure. I didn’t tell Amelia. She was already fraying at the edges: fielding calls from panicked clients, dodging paparazzi who’d started camping outside the guest house gates, trying to keep the triplets from seeing the headlines on her phone. Every time I looked at her, I saw the weight she carried alone for seven years. Because of me.
I needed proof. Not for them—for me. So I could stop guessing and start protecting.
I arranged it discreetly. A private lab outside the city, no names attached. I collected cheek swabs from the kids during what looked like a casual game—pretending to check for “hockey mouthguards” while they laughed and let me swipe the inside of their cheek
