“Children born from a medical procedure performed after your divorce began, under disputed consent, while their mother had no legal spouse, no stable residence, and no verified income.”
Emily flinched.
I felt rage move through me like fire.
“You come near those children,” I said, “and I swear—”
“You’ll what?” Ashley interrupted. “Shout? Threaten me? That will look wonderful in court.”
Grant Wilkes stepped forward again, smooth and cold.
“Ms. Bennett has reason to believe fraud occurred in the creation and custody status of these minors. She also has reason to believe Mr. Carter may be vulnerable to manipulation by Ms. Carter, given the timing of recent events.”
“Ms. Carter,” I said.
The attorney paused.
“What?”
“Her name is Emily Carter,” I said.
Emily looked at me then.
Just for a second.
But in that second, the year between us seemed to tremble.
Ashley noticed that too.
Her lips tightened.
“Not legally,” she said. “You divorced her.”
The words cut through the silence.
Yes.
I had.
I had signed the papers. I had let anger guide my hand. I had stood in a courtroom and watched Emily cry without moving toward her.
I had done that.
No lie from Ashley erased it.
One of the twins began to cry. Emily rocked gently, whispering something into the baby’s soft hair.
Ashley’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s unstable,” she said. “Look at her. Living in shelters. Digging through trash. Carrying infants around in the heat.”
Emily looked down.
Shame passed across her face like a shadow.
I stepped closer to Ashley.
“She was in a shelter because of you.”
Ashley leaned in just slightly and lowered her voice so only I could hear.
“And because you left her there.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Ashley knew exactly where to strike.
Then she straightened and turned to Emily.
“We’re filing an emergency motion first thing in the morning. Until paternity and consent issues are resolved, we’ll be requesting temporary protective custody.”
Emily’s face went white.
“No.”
“Yes,” Ashley said. “You should have thought about this before dragging children into your mess.”
I moved between them fully.
“You are not taking my children.”
Ashley smiled again.
That smile.
That perfect, bloodless smile.
“Then prove they’re yours.”
I froze.
Emily did too.
The wind moved through the trees at the edge of the shelter parking lot. Somewhere behind us, a screen door creaked open and closed.
Ashley reached into her handbag again.
This time she pulled out a slim white envelope.
“I took the liberty of having samples tested.”
My stomach dropped.
“What samples?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she looked at Emily.
“Pacifier. Bottle nipple. Hair from a brush. It wasn’t difficult. Shelters are busy places.”
Emily made a strangled sound.
“You touched my babies’ things?”
Ashley handed the envelope to her attorney.
He removed a page, glanced at it, then passed it to me.
I didn’t want to look.
But my eyes fell to the conclusion anyway.
Probability of paternity: 0.00%.
For several seconds, the world vanished.
There was only that number.
Zero.
Not possible.
Not mine.
The babies had my eyes.
My hair.
My face.
I looked at Emily.
She was staring at the paper, her mouth slightly open.
“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not true.”
Ashley watched with open pleasure.
“Awkward,” she murmured.
I looked down at the twins.
One was asleep now, cheek pressed against Emily’s chest. The other blinked up at me with dark blue eyes.
My father’s eyes.
My eyes.
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