Prologue
Kaden
February, 2024.
Breathe, Kaden. Just breathe.
My breaths come sharp and uneven, matching the restless bounce of my leg as I sit perched on the edge of the couch. In my shaky hands is a three-page document that feels far heavier than paper ever should, as if it holds the weight of my entire future.
In a way, it does. Because for the past six weeks, this child has been my entire world, my whole reason for getting up each morning, for believing there might still be something good waiting for me. And whatever is written on these pages has the power to shatter that hope in a matter of seconds.
The folded sheets had been sitting on my desk at work for hours, untouched since my receptionist printed them from my email earlier this afternoon. They’d been waiting for meall day—silent, accusing, daring me to unfold them and face the truth I’ve been avoiding for days.
After three long hours, and one agonising trip home, I know it’s finally time to rip off the band-aid and just get this over with.
With a sharp exhale, I slowly unfold the document in one quick movement, the papers crinkling beneath my fingers as the words begin to appear. My eyes rapidly dart over the page, seeing clinical words I can’t make sense of—numbers, tables, jargon, all blurring together in my head until they land on the only line that matters.
Probability of Paternity: 0%.
Paternity—Excluded.
My heart plummets to my stomach as my gaze locks on the big, bold number—zero. Zero percent.No! This can’t be! Please, God. Tell me this isn’t real!
Panic tightens in my throat as I frantically scan the pages, searching for more clarity, for some small explanation that proves this isn’t final. My gaze spots the wordexcludedon the last paragraph.
Swallowing heavily, I force myself to read the line in full:
‘Paternity exclusion indicates that the person tested has multiple genetic mismatches with the child and is therefore excluded from being the true biological parent.’
The words are blunt, clinical, sterile—merciless. It confirms I’m not the real father. Arianna isnotmy biological child. The results hit harder than any punch I’d ever taken, the oxygen in my lungs straining as though someone had cut all the air from the room.
I read the sentence again, then again, as if staring at it long enough will miraculously change the outcome. But it doesn’t. The result is still the same.
The baby—my Ari, isn’t mine.
For six whole weeks I’ve cradled her in my arms, rocked her against my chest, sung lullabies to her in the quiet hours of the night. I’ve changed nappies, fed her, memorised every tiny expression as if they were etched into my very soul.
Six weeks I’ve watched her sleep peacefully in her bassinet, her chest rising and falling with soft, steady breaths, tiny fists curling and uncurling as though reaching for me. Those sweet, delicate newborn sounds she makes when she hears my voice, the little sighs, the half-smiles, as if she already knew me, trusted me, loved me.
Proof that she was mine, even for the briefest moment.
“Excluded,” I whisper to myself, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears. “I am not the father. That bitch lied to me this whole fucking time!”
The sheets of paper slips from my hands and falls to the floor as I clutch a fist to my chest, my heart splintering into a thousand tiny shards, piercing me from the inside out.
This can’t be happening. First the divorce, then Lucia’s betrayal, and now Arianna.
It’s like that old saying—when it rains, it pours. Only this isn’t just a downpour, it’s a bloody fucking flood. A flood I’m slowly drowning in.
My hand shakes as I drag it over my face, my emotions colliding in a violent storm—anger, resentment, disappointment, sorrow.
Arianna, my sweet baby girl. She was never mine, never has been.
The first tear escapes down my cheek, then another, and another, until they’re streaming freely and soaking my face. I don’t bother wiping them away. I just sit here, motionless, as though the grief itself has pinned me down, stealing the strength from every limb.
The sharp click of the front door lock jolts me out of the fog, and I scramble into motion. I drag the collar of my shirt across my damp cheeks, wiping away the evidence of my tears, then hastily snatch the sheets of paper from the floor, stacking them into an uneven pile on my lap. By the time the door slams shut, I’ve barely managed to steady my breathing.
Lucia steps into the living room, holding the baby carrier in one hand. Ari lies fast asleep inside, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm with my own.The moment Lucia’s eyes land on me, taking in my tousled hair, glazed eyes, and the document resting in my lap, her expression instantly falters.
