That heir was Carson.
My husband. The man who worshipped the Rutherford bl*odline. The man who stood at the foot of my hospital bed and said he would not raise another man’s baby.
Carson is, himself, another man’s baby.
He carries not one drop of the sacred Rutherford bl*od he had spent his whole life protecting. The dynasty, the name, the pride, the line he was so terrified our daughter might contaminate — he isn’t even part of it. He is the son of a kind stranger whose name his own mother has kept secret for thirty-eight years.
And here is the detail that turned Priscilla’s face white in that hospital room, the thing she understood in an instant that Carson did not.
A DNA test does not answer only one question.
Carson wanted to test our daughter against himself, to prove she was his. But Iris is, without any question, his — I had never been unfaithful, not once, and the test would show his DNA in her clear as day.
