Now, let me take you back to the dining room, to the moment after I walked out.
Victor sat frozen at the head of the table, the white envelope lying on his plate like a dare.
“What the hell was that about?”
Marcus laughed nervously, trying to break the tension.
“Classic Sabrina, always so dramatic.”
But Victor wasn’t laughing. His hand reached for the envelope slowly, almost reluctantly. Helena leaned over his shoulder, curiosity overriding her usual composure.
“It’s probably nothing,”
she said.
“Some passive aggressive thank you note.”
Victor tore the envelope open. The first page slid out. The DNA test results. His eyes scanned the document, and I’m told by a cousin who was sitting nearby that all the color drained from his face in about 3 seconds.
“Victor.”
Helena’s voice sharpened.
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer. His hands were shaking as he pulled out the second document, the adoption certificate, his own signature dated 32 years ago.
“Victor,”
the third document was my letter. He read it in silence, his jaw clenching tighter with each line. And then, according to my cousin, Victor Prescott—the unshakable patriarch, the self-made billionaire, the man who had never shown an ounce of vulnerability in his entire life—he screamed,
“No, no, no, no.”
The glass of Chateau Marggo shattered against the table. Red wine spread across the white linen like blood.
“Victor, what is happening?”
Helena grabbed the papers from his hands, her eyes darting across the text. DNA results, probability of paternity 0%.
“What is this?”
Her voice was loud enough that the people closest to them heard every word. And in a room full of gossips, that was all it took. The whispers started immediately. DNA test. 0%. Sabrina isn’t his daughter. Victor was clutching the edge of the table like a drowning man, mumbling, This can’t be right, over and over. The Forbes photographer was capturing everything.
And somewhere in the parking lot, I was climbing into my Honda Civic, hands steady on the wheel, heart pounding with something that wasn’t quite triumph.
It was relief.
Helena, for all her cunning, made a fatal mistake in that moment. She panicked out loud. Adoption certificate. She was still staring at the papers, her voice carrying across the suddenly silent room.
“Victor, you adopted Sabrina? She’s not your biological child.”
50 guests heard every word. To Helena’s credit, she realized her error almost immediately, but it was too late. The information was already spreading through the room like wildfire. Did she say Sabrina isn’t his daughter? He adopted her, but he’s been treating her like garbage for years. If she’s not even his kid, why was he so cruel?
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