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"Never. Growing up, I’d watch interviews he’d given, on YouTube, and read about him in magazine articles. But my mom always told me he was my father. That he loved me in his own way. That he just couldn't acknowledge me publicly."

"That's a hell of a thing to tell a kid."

She shrugged. "I believed her. Why wouldn't I?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"After college, he hired me at St. Claire Global. I spent six years working as his glorified executive assistant. I managed his calendar, coordinated his travel, sat in meetings, and handled things his own child, Deacon, probably never knew existed."

"Six years?"

She nodded. "And not once did he acknowledge that he was my father. Not publicly or privately. Not even when we were alone. We both knew the truth. Or at least I thought we did. But he treated me exactly like every other employee."

My jaw tightened. "Jesus."

"I used to think if I worked hard enough, if I made myself indispensable, eventually he'd be proud of me. Maybe one day he'd acknowledge I was his daughter."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. I reached for her hand. She let me take it.

"But he died before that happened."

"I'm sorry." I squeezed her hand.

She shook her head. "Don't be. Because that's when things got really interesting."

There was something about her smile that made me want to punch a wall.

"After he died, my mom finally told me the truth. Abraham St. Claire was not my father."

I stared at her. "What?"

"My biological father was a man named Jimmy Norton. Petty criminal. In and out of trouble. He died in jail when I was fifteen."

"Wait." I tried to wrap my head around what she was telling me. "Your mom knew St. Claire wasn't your father?"

"Yep."

"And she told him he was?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because he had money. Lots of it. And she knew he wouldn't want anything to do with us, but he'd pay to make the problem go away. She figured if he believed I was his daughter, I'd never go without."

Holy shit.

"She told me she did it because she loved me," Mikayla continued. "Because she wanted me to have opportunities she never had."

"And what did you say?"

"I asked her if she'd ever considered that maybe I would've preferred having a father who wanted me over a billionaire who paid to pretend I didn't exist." She let out a shaky breath. “She didn't take that well."

"I bet."

She looked down. "The worst part is, I spent my entire childhood believing there was something wrong with me. That I wasn't good enough to be acknowledged. And then I spent six years working for a man I thought was my father, hoping that if I did everything perfectly, he'd finally claim me."

"Mik—"