Chapter 3
“Excuse me?”
“She investigates things.”
A few guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Ethan continued.
“She says evidence matters more than opinions.”
I felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Daniel opened his mouth, then closed it.
Victoria looked at me.
“Commander Reynolds, is there documentation?”
“Of course.”
Daniel scoffed.
“You came prepared?”
“I raised quadruplets alone, Daniel.
Preparation became a survival skill.”
I opened the slim leather portfolio Officer Lena Brooks had insisted I carry.
Inside were certified copies of the children's birth records, medical documentation, and correspondence dating back eight years.
I had not brought them to humiliate Daniel.
I had brought them because I knew exactly how he responded when confronted with something inconvenient.
He denied it.
Then he attacked the person presenting it.
I handed Victoria a copy of the birth records.
She read the first page.
Then the second.
Her expression changed.
“Daniel…”
He snatched the papers.
His eyes moved rapidly across the names.
Noah James Reynolds.
Ethan Michael Reynolds.
Sophia Grace Reynolds.
Olivia Rose Reynolds.
All born on August seventeenth.
All four records identified Daniel as their father, based on the information I had supplied at birth.
Daniel stared at the documents.
“This proves nothing.”
I nodded.
“Birth records alone don't establish biological paternity.
I agree.”
His expression flickered.
“Then why bring them?”
“Because you keep pretending they don't exist.”
Victoria looked at the children again.
Their gray eyes.
Their dimples.
Their identical expressions of confusion.
“Daniel,” she whispered, “they look exactly like you.”
He snapped the folder shut.
“I want a DNA test.”
“Then request one through the appropriate legal process.”
“I want it immediately!”
Olivia flinched.
That was enough.
I stepped between Daniel and my children.
“You will not shout at them.”
My voice was quiet.
But every person in the room heard it.
Daniel stared at me.
For a moment, I saw recognition in his eyes.
Not affection.
Not regret.
Recognition that the woman standing before him was no longer someone he could intimidate.
“Mom,” Sophia whispered, tugging my sleeve, “can we go somewhere else?”
I crouched beside her.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Then Olivia asked the question that nearly broke me.
“Does Daddy not like us?”
I felt my throat close.
Before I could answer, Margaret Reynolds began crying.
Not delicate tears.
Not the controlled emotion of a woman accustomed to formal receptions.
She covered her face and sobbed.
“I told him,” she whispered.