“What fortress? The one built on a murder?”
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Talk to a Doctor
She flinched, a flicker of fear breaking through her practiced composure.
“It was a mistake— a fire in ’87 that killed Jonathan Whitmore’s brother. We covered it up, buried the evidence, and forged a narrative that our line was unblemished.”
My breath hitched as the memory of a headline I’d never read flashed behind my eyes.
“And the boys?” I demanded, hand clenched around the edge of a cracked wooden seat.
Margaret’s stare dropped to the ground, then rose, cold.
“They are the true heirs. The adoption papers you signed were a ruse, a legal shield to keep the bloodline hidden.”
My mind raced— the document I thought was a routine form was the key to a legacy I never owned.
“So the empire I built… on my own blood?” I whispered, the words echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
