Chapter 3 - The Broken Vow
"Victoria?" Ethan’s voice was barely an audible whisper, filled with a terrifying mixture of shock and rising rage. "What is my father talking about?"
"Ethan, don't listen to him!" Victoria panicked, her voice rising in pitch as she reached out to grab his arm. "He's old, he's being manipulated by this bitter woman! She wants your fortune! We’re supposed to be married in four weeks!"
Richard didn't even bother to argue. He simply reached into his pocket once more, pulled out a second crisp white document, and slapped it down over the yellowed letters. It was an official DNA paternity report bearing the gold seal of Chicago General Hospital.
Paternity Probability: 99.99%.
Ethan’s eyes glued themselves to the bold red numbers at the bottom of the page. The numbers burned into his retinas like fire. Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he looked up from the paper. His gaze shifted away from his trembling fiancée and landed directly on Noah, who was standing quietly by Richard's side.
Noah was watching him with wide, solemn gray eyes—eyes that were an exact, undeniable mirror image of Ethan's own. Sensing the heavy tension in the room, Noah instinctively tucked his left hand behind his back, his fingers twitching nervously against his belt loop.
Ethan dropped the paper. His own left hand, hanging limp at his side, fell into the exact same unconscious habit.
"My God..." Ethan stumbled backward, knocking his designer leather chair violently against the adjacent table. The legendary, unshakeable CEO of Blackwood Enterprises looked entirely hollowed out. He turned to me, his voice breaking into raw, desperate pieces. "Clara... he’s my son?"
I looked him dead in the eye, feeling no triumph, only the cold weight of seven years of hard survival. I remembered sitting alone in cold free clinics, working three shifts a day to afford baby formula, and crying into my pillow while high-society tabloids branded me a gold-digging mistress who ran away with a payday.
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"Seven years ago, you swore on your mother's memory that you would never let anyone tear us apart," I said softly, my voice carrying clearly across the silent restaurant. "Ten minutes ago, you called me a beggar and threw a piece of plastic at my face to make me disappear. You don't get to ask about my son now."
I reached down and gently took Noah’s small hand back into mine. "Come on, Noah. We're leaving."
