The room erupted. Gasps. Whispers. The scraping of chairs.
“That’s impossible,” Natalie stammered, standing up. “He said… he said you cheated. He said it wasn’t his.”
“He lied,” I said simply, turning to face her. “Just like he lied about wanting to work on our marriage. Just like he lied about where he was on Christmas Eve.”
“Mia!” I called out.
Mia stepped forward, connecting her phone to the Bluetooth speaker system she had hacked into earlier.
“December 24th,” Mia announced. “While Emma was home making Christmas dinner.”
The large projection screen behind Natalie—meant for a slideshow of her pregnancy—suddenly flashed with the screenshots. Mitchell and Natalie kissing. Timestamps. Captions bragging about their “secret love.”
“But that’s not all,” I said, turning to Catherine. “You knew, didn’t you, Catherine? You told Helen Murphy that Ashley had the Gordon nose.”
I nodded to Mia. She hit play.
Catherine’s voice boomed over the speakers, crisp and clear. “Oh, the girl is definitely Mitchell’s… Mitchell had to get out of that marriage somehow… Emma’s too proud to ask for a paternity test.”
Catherine slumped into a chair, her face gray. The socialites around her recoiled as if she were contagious.
“You knew?” someone whispered loudly. “You let him abandon his own child?”
“Mitchell,” I said, drawing his attention back to me. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”
He looked at Ashley. For a second, I saw it—regret. Or maybe just fear. Ashley reached out a chubby hand toward him, babbling. She looked exactly like him. The resemblance was damning.
“I…” he started, his voice cracking.
