God.
It was calm, distant. No bright smile, no hint of joy.
Next to her stood some handsome guy in a light suit, grinning like the world belonged to him. She didn’t lean toward him. Didn’t glow the way brides usually did. She just stood there, almost lifeless.
Something inside Jasper ripped open.
He stared at that photo all night, noting every detail: the curve of her shoulders, her thin fingers, the way the dress sat on her… and her eyes. Empty. Even with the smoothing and filters meant to perfect the shot, he could see something inside her had shattered.
The photos were posted on the page of Frank Osborne, her fiancé. Or her husband by then—didn’t matter. At first, Jasper didn’t even recognize the guy. He scrolled through the profile, piecing together who he was. Frank had gone to their college too, though Jasper didn’t remember him. His page was filled with luxury cars, beach trips, parties.
But Nina had just a blank profile: a throwaway avatar, no wedding photos, nothing. And girls usually loved posting that kind of thing.
Jasper let out a breath.
If she’d gotten married so quickly, then she must’ve been okay.
He wondered if that guy knew what had happened. If he did—then he really loved her, and Jasper had no right to think about her anymore. They weren’t meant to cross paths. It would’ve been wrong.
He just needed to forget her.
And he did.
Or at least he tried.
But at night he still saw a blurred face of a girl begging him for mercy. Sex stopped giving him any pleasure. At first, he couldn’t touch women at all. He was terrified he’d lose control and hurt someone again. Then he buried himself in school, then work.
Years passed like that.
And then…
Then came that day.
The day that changed his life beyond recognition and proved just how wrong he’d been about everything.
CHAPTER 26
The letter came anonymously.
Plain white paper, no signature, no hint of anyone’s identity, no scent, no trace of another person’s hand. Just a few lines, printed from a computer:
“You have a daughter. She’s two years old. She’s at the Daisyfield Children’s Group Home. Her name is Lynn Turner. Date of birth — October 4th. If you have even a shred of conscience, you’ll make sure she never lacks anything.”
He stared at those words for a long time. Turned the paper over in his hands, as if something else might be hidden there—something that would explain who wrote it, and why.
He didn’t believe it.
Of course he didn’t. If some girl had gotten pregnant from him, she would’ve shown up in person with that“joyful” news, not sent anonymous letters.
It had to be nonsense.
He thought he’d forget the letter. Throw it out, tear it up, burn it—make it stop existing. But it lodged in his mind like a splinter and wouldn’t let go.
He tried not to think about it. Tried to shrug it off. But whenever he closed his eyes—he saw those words again.
“You have a daughter.”
He looked at the birth date, did rough math, tried to figure out when it could’ve happened. It lined up with the exact time he’d been partying like a maniac.
