Fuck you. And fuck your fucking paternity test. We don’t need a damned thing from you.
It’s barely9:00 a.m. on Monday when Penny from the front desk pokes her head into my office.
“Hey, Rhea? There’s someone here for you. From the post office. Says he needs a signature?”
I blink up from my laptop, I know it’s not good. “A signature?”
“Certified mail,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “Want me to send him in?”
“Sure,” I manage, though my stomach’s already turning.
Moments later, a man in a USPS uniform steps through the door holding a clipboard and a white envelope stampedCertified Mail – Signature Requiredin red.
“Ms. Rhea Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“Need your signature here.”
I scribble my name with a hand that suddenly doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. He hands over the envelope without a word and walks out.
The return address on the top left corner stops my heart cold:
Willoughby, Kane & Trent LLP
Family Law Division
I sit down, slowly, and tear it open with shaking fingers. The paper inside is thick, stiff, expensive. It smells like toner and threat.
The letterhead is embossed. Every word is sharp. Precise. Measured.
“Please be advised that our client, Mr. Spencer Devereaux, is formally requesting chain-of-custody paternity testing for the minor child, Esme Sinclair. Testing must be conducted at a certified facility. The presence of a neutral third-party witness may be required to verify the source of the DNA sample.”
My throat tightens.
“Failure to comply within seven (7) business days from date of receipt may result in the filing of a motion to compel testing and evaluate custodial rights.”
And finally:
“Do not contact Mr. Devereaux directly. All communication must be routed through this office.”
That last line feels like a slap. He won’t even talk to me.
I press the letter flat against my desk with both hands like I can smother it. My palms are damp. My chest aches.
Across the library, I hear Penny still chatting at the front desk, totally unaware that the bottom has just fallen out of my life.
I slide the letter into my computer bag and zip it closed. As if I can bury everything it threatens to unearth.
But I can’t unread it. And I can’t forget his words.
“And if she is mine…”
The sentence never ended. But now I can’t stop filling in the blanks.
I’m coming for her. I’ll take her. I’ll make you pay.
What if I’ve just started a war I can’t win?
