“My husband was their father.”
“Daniel believed the same.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“Then who?”
Nikolai held my gaze.
Outside, engines roared to life.
Men shouted from the courtyard.
Somewhere in the estate, an alarm began to ring.
Nikolai reached inside his coat and removed a small black case.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph of two newborn boys in a hospital bassinet.
My sons.
Samuel and Jonah.
Alive.
Beside the photograph lay a DNA report.
I saw my name.
Then Nikolai’s.
Probability of paternity: 99.98 percent.
The room disappeared.
My memories fractured.
A charity gala in Boston more than a year ago.
Champagne.
Daniel leaving early after an argument.
A stranger with dark eyes helping me into a car.
A hotel corridor.
A missing stretch of night I had blamed on alcohol and grief.
“No,” I whispered.
