And it was her fault.
I would never forgive her.
A loud horn jolted me out of the memory.
I yanked the steering wheel sharply, barely missing a parked car. I pulled over hard, heart hammering, breath ragged, and shut my eyes, forcing myself to regain control.
I had a daughter.
I was a father.
My mind spun, trying to force the pieces to fit.
I didn’t doubt what I’d discovered years ago. Those photos, those messages—my grandmother’s evidence—were carved into my memory, solid as stone.
But that child—
She had my eyes.
My face.
There was no denying it.
She was mine.
And Valentina had hidden her from me for five years.
Five damn years.
Why?
The answer snapped into place with brutal clarity:
Because Valentina wanted leverage.
A card up her sleeve.
A future plan.
A calculated, cold, disgusting scheme.
She’d failed to trap me with marriage, so now she’d tried again—using my innocent daughter as a tool in her filthy game.
Turning my child into a backup plan.
My chest burned with rage so intense it choked me. My vision narrowed, red with fury and resentment.
How dared she?
How dared she steal my right to know my own daughter? To see her born. To hear her first words. To witness her first steps.
She had taken all of it.
Selfishly. Unforgivably.
My fists clenched so hard my knuckles popped, my body shaking as hatred rose—pure and absolute.
Valentina would pay.
