Then she looked Joy straight in the eye.
"Because I am your mother," she said. "And the last thing I want is for these filthy Danes to set their hooks in you."
28
JOY
For a moment, the words didn’t mean anything.
They hovered in the air between us—because I am your mother—detached from sense, from logic, from me. Like a phrase spoken in a foreign language I didn’t know well enough to translate.
The lantern hissed softly beside Victoria, its flame flickering as the wind rolled in off the water. Waves whispered against the edges of the sandbar. The night carried on as if nothing had happened.
As if my entire life hadn’t just cracked down the center.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
My voice sounded calm. Almost bored. Like I was correcting someone who’d gotten a date wrong.
Victoria tilted her head slightly, studying me the way she’d done since the moment she saw me—like I was a problem she’d solved once and now couldn’t unsee. “It is.”
“No,” I said again, firmer this time. “You’re lying.”
Micah’s hand tightened around mine, grounding, warm. I clung to it without looking at him, afraid that if I did, the world would tilt too far.
I laughed once, sharp and hollow. “You don’t even know me.”
Victoria’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I know exactly who you are.”
That did it.
Something inside my chest splintered, the denial giving way to a sick, cold spiral of thoughts I didn’t want to follow but couldn’t stop.
“No,” I whispered, the word unraveling now. “No. This—this doesn’t make sense.”
My gaze snapped to Byron.
My stomach dropped before the question even fully formed.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Is he?—?”
The thought hit like a physical blow.
Byron’s face drained of color instantly. “Joy—no.”
I wrenched my hand free from Micah’s and stumbled back a step, sand shifting under my feet. My breath came too fast, too shallow.
“Is he my father?” I demanded, the words tumbling out now, panicked, raw. “Because if he is—if he’s my father—then Micah?—”
I gagged.
The idea slammed into me so violently my knees buckled. I bent forward, hands braced on my thighs, retching dryly as my body revolted against the thought.
Micah was instantly there, one arm wrapping around me, the other gripping my shoulder. “Joy. Hey. Hey. Breathe.”
“I can’t—” I gasped. “I can’t?—”
Byron moved fast, crossing the sand in three long strides. “Joy, listen to me. I am not your father.”
