Corinne bristled, sitting up straight. "Excuse me? Then why are you in my mother's house?"

"We're here to say goodbye," Maren continued, keeping her eyes locked on Helena. "And to make sure you understand exactly why."

"I will not be spoken to this way in my own home," Helena snapped, the genteel facade cracking instantly. "Graham, control your wife."

"My wife speaks for both of us," Graham said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Maren.

Maren reached into her purse and pulled out a single sheet of paper—a photocopy she had made of Richard Mercer's letter. She didn't hand it to Helena; she simply held it up.

Helena's eyes darted to the paper. The color drained completely from her face. The aristocratic poise vanished, replaced by a raw, naked panic that Maren had never seen before.

"I know, Helena," Maren said softly, but the words hit like a hammer. "I know about Evelyn. I know about the deal you made with Richard. I know exactly how much you were paid to pretend to be a mother."

Corinne looked frantically between her mother and Maren. "What is she talking about? Mom, what is she saying?"

Helena couldn't speak. Her hands trembled so violently that her teacup rattled against the saucer.

"She's saying that for thirty-five years, you have punished an innocent child for your husband's sins," Maren said, her voice rising with righteous fury. "You took Richard's money, you kept your social standing, and you took your bitterness out on Graham every single day of his life. And now, you're trying to do it to me, and to my unborn child, because we are the continuation of the family you tried to bury."

"Get out," Helena whispered, her voice a raspy hiss. "Get out of my house."

"With pleasure," Maren said. She turned to Corinne, who was staring at her mother in horrified confusion. "You can ask her to explain it to you, Corinne. I'm sure she has a wonderful, polished story prepared. She always does."

Graham looked at his mother one last time. There was no anger left in his eyes, only a profound, liberating emptiness. "You're dead to me, Helena. Don't ever contact us again."

He took Maren's hand, and together, they turned their backs on the conservatory, the estate, and the poisonous legacy that had haunted them, walking out the front doors and into the cool, fresh air.

Eight weeks later, the sterile, bright lights of the hospital room felt warmer than the sun setting outside the window.

Maren lay in the hospital bed, exhausted, sweaty, and happier than she had ever been in her entire life. In her arms, wrapped in a striped receiving blanket, was a tiny, sleeping infant with a shock of dark hair that exactly matched Graham's.

Graham sat beside the bed, his chair pulled as close as physically possible. He hadn't stopped touching them for hours—a hand on Maren's shoulder, a finger gently stroking the baby's impossibly soft cheek. He looked like a man who had been wandering in a desert for thirty years and had finally found an ocean.