Chapter 7 - The Paternity Test
Graham requested a paternity test two days later.
Marcus asked whether I wanted to fight it.
“No.”
He studied me.
“You do not owe him reassurance after what he did.”
“I’m not doing it for Graham.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“I’m doing it so no one can ever weaponize this lie against my sons again.”
A court-approved laboratory collected samples.
Noah cried.
Oliver slept through almost everything.
Graham attended his collection separately.
For forty-eight hours, the Harrington rumor machine worked faster than the laboratory.
A society blog reported that a “prominent family” was privately confronting a paternity crisis.
My name was not published.
It did not need to be.
Friends began texting.
Clients called my studio.
Two employees received messages asking whether I was taking an extended leave due to “personal instability.”
Marcus traced one reporter’s source to a public-relations consultant.
The consultant had been paid from an account belonging to Vivian Harrington.
That was our first clean financial link.
I told Marcus not to threaten the publication.
“Why?”
“Because I want Vivian to keep talking.”
He understood.
Three days later, the results arrived.
Marcus came to my apartment personally.
I was feeding Noah when he placed the sealed envelope on the kitchen table.
“You can open it.”
I did.
Probability of paternity for Graham Harrington.
99.9998 percent.
I felt no triumph.
Only exhaustion.
The twins had never needed a laboratory to tell me who their father was.
But their father had needed one.
Graham called within twenty minutes.
“I got the results.”
“So did I.”
“Elena.”
I waited.
“They’re mine.”
The words irritated me in a way I had not expected.
“They were yours ten days ago.”
“I know.”
“They were yours when Noah was crying outside.”
“I know.”
“They were yours when your mother called them bastards.”
His breathing became uneven.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He went silent.
Then he said something I did not expect.
“I asked my mother who Daniel was.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“She said she didn’t remember.”
“That was enough for you before.”
“I know.”
I almost ended the call.
Then Graham continued.
“I found a receipt in her desk.”
“For what?”
“A prepaid phone.”
The activation date matched the forensic report.
Graham’s voice dropped.
“There’s more.”
I could hear him moving.
Paper rustled.
“The receipt was stapled to an invoice from a digital investigation company.”
Marcus had warned me that evidence rarely changed people as dramatically as guilt did.
Graham finally sounded frightened.
“What company?”
“Briar & Cole Investigations.”
I wrote it down.
“Who signed the invoice?”
Silence.
Then Graham whispered the name.
May you like
“Vivian.”
---
