I didn’t believe her.
Within weeks, I had signed the divorce papers.
I left her with a modest settlement and instructed my lawyers to handle any further communication.
Then I married Cordelia.
For years, I avoided thinking about Marianne.
Whenever guilt surfaced, I reminded myself that she had accepted the settlement and disappeared.
I assumed she had rebuilt her life somewhere far away.
I never considered that she might have given birth to my child.
Let alone two.
“Are they mine?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
Marianne’s expression hardened.
“Biologically? Yes.”
My knees felt weak.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked at me as though she couldn’t believe I had asked.
“I wrote to you.”
“What?”
“I sent letters to your office. I sent one to your family’s home. I even called your lawyer.”
I shook my head.
“I never received anything.”
“Then someone made sure you didn’t.”
