The Rutherfords gathered the next afternoon at the family estate to hear the results — Gerald, the aunts, the cousins, the whole pride of them, assembled to formally reject my daughter from their precious line.
Carson stood among them, certain, vindicated, waiting to watch me be exposed.
Priscilla sat in the back, gray as ash.
And I walked in with Iris in my arms, because I was not going to let them pass judgment on my child without her mother standing there.
The family lawyer opened the sealed report.
And began to read.
PART 4
The lawyer read the first finding in the flat voice of a man who did not yet understand what he was holding.
“The child, Iris, is confirmed as the biological daughter of Carson Rutherford. Paternity: ninety-nine point nine nine percent.”
A ripple went through the room. Carson’s certainty cracked. He hadn’t truly believed, I think, that she wasn’t his — he’d simply needed her to be a question, because a man raised to worship bl*od cannot love a child he hasn’t verified. Now the question was answered, and he had abandoned his wife and newborn daughter for nothing, in front of his entire family.
