I met his burning glare with a look of absolute, unyielding ice, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
“The man I married in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral died the moment he put an apartment in the Gold Coast under Sophia Reynolds’s name,” I stated.
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Ethan’s head snapped toward his mother, his youthful brow furrowing in confusion at the sudden, vicious mention of his family’s origin.
“Mom, what is she talking about?” Ethan asked, his voice cracking with adolescent embarrassment in front of the surrounding professors.
“Quiet, Ethan!” Sophia snapped hysterically, her eyes darting around the hallway to see who was listening to the exchange.
Vincent ignored his legitimate son entirely, leaning down until his tall frame hovered inches above my personal space.
“He carries my blood, Claire; you had no right to hide my flesh and blood in some suburban cellar for two decades,” Vincent growled.
