“You are not the first,” Valentine says. “You are not unique. You are not a mistake or an accident. Every single thing that has happened to you – in your entire lifetime Kayla – was deliberate.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I escaped. I killed. I chose to do those things. No one made me.”
Valentine’s expression stays composed. “You left a contained environment. You moved beyond a boundary. That is not the same as escape.”
“It is when they were going to take my baby then kill me,” I snap.
Valentine exhales, faint and controlled, like he’s dealing with a stubborn misconception.
“Kayla,” he says, and my name carries a weight this time. Not affection. Not anger. Instruction. “This is not personal.”
I let out a short laugh that holds no humour. “Everything about this is personal.”
Valentine doesn’t react.
“Your biological mother is Seytan,” he says.
No lead-in. No softening. The sentence drops into the room like a bolt thrown.
For a moment, sound goes distant. The hotel, the city outside, even my own breathing. It’s all pushed back by the sheerwrongnessof the statement.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Seytan.
Mother.
“No,” I manage, and it isn’t an argument. It’s a reflex.
Valentine waits. Patient, like I’m a slow-loading file.
“You’re lying,” I say.
“I am not,” he replies.
My throat tightens. I can feel my skin going cold from the inside out.
“And I,” Valentine says, “am your father.”
That one is worse. Not bigger. Worse. Because it reaches into the part of my life that still feels…mine.
“No,” I say, louder. “No. I remember my parents.”
Valentine doesn’t blink.
“I remember them,” I insist, words tumbling faster now. “I remember our house. I remember my mum. My dad. I remember my brother.”
The memory flashes bright, stubborn. A kitchen smell. A hallway light. A laugh. A hand ruffling my hair. A voice calling me in.
“Ratis your brother.”
I shake my head again. “You’re wrong. I remember an older brother,” I add, cutting my eyes at him. “And it definitely wasn’t Rat.”
Valentine’s gaze doesn’t shift. “You remember what you were given to remember.”
Rage flares hot under my skin. I take a step forward before I can stop myself. “You don’t get to rewrite my life,” I snarl.
“I am not rewriting it,” Valentine says. “I am correcting context. Your memories are deliberately…inaccurate and it has been decided that the time is right to correct that.”
