CHAPTER 8 — MY FATHER'S GREATEST LIE
CHAPTER 8 — MY FATHER'S GREATEST LIE
The gunshot echoed through the underground room.
For one terrible second, I thought Grant was dead.
“Grant!”
I dropped beside him.
He was on his back, one hand pressed against his shoulder.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
“I'm fine.”
“You've been shot.”
“It's a graze.”
“A graze?”
He gave me a grim smile.
“I've had worse.”
Another gunshot struck the metal cabinet above us.
My father's security officers drew their weapons.
“DOWN!”
I dropped behind the concrete table.
My father pulled me against him.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I am not hiding again.”
He looked at me.
Something in his expression changed.
Then he nodded.
“Fine.”
The security officers moved toward the staircase.
Footsteps thundered above us.
Then silence.
Too much silence.
One of the guards called out.
“Clear.”
My father didn't relax.
“Check the exit.”
The guard disappeared.
A minute later, he returned.
“They're gone.”
I looked at Grant.
He was still sitting against the wall.
Blood stained his shirt.
I crawled toward him.
“Let me see.”
“I said I'm fine.”
“Stop lying to me.”
He looked at me.
For once, he didn't argue.
I moved his hand.
The bullet had grazed the top of his shoulder.
Not deep.
But enough to make my hands shake.
My father crouched beside us.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Then we leave.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He frowned.
“What?”
I held up the DNA report.
“This stays.”
“Claire—”
“No.”
I looked around the room.
“We found the truth.”
My voice trembled.
“And I'm not leaving without it.”
My father stared at the report.
His face was gray.
“I need to explain.”
“You've had twenty-two years.”
He looked away.
“Then start.”
We locked the underground room from the inside.
The security team checked every entrance.
No one spoke while I held the DNA report.
Finally, I looked at my father.
“Is Grant your son?”
He swallowed.
“I don't know.”
I slammed the report onto the table.
“This says you are.”
“Yes.”
“Then why don't you know?”
“Because I never agreed to that test.”
“That's your signature.”
He looked at the document.
“I didn't sign it.”
“Someone forged your signature again?”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
I was beginning to hate that sentence.
Everything was always forged.
Every signature.
Every identity.
Every death.
Every marriage.
Every truth.
My father looked at Grant.
“Where did you get this?”
Grant shook his head.
“I found it in the same archive Claire did.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My mother.”
My father froze.
“Isabel.”
Grant nodded.
My father stepped backward.
“What did she tell you?”
“That you were my father.”
Silence.
My father's face changed.
Grant looked at him.
“Were you?”
My father closed his eyes.
“I loved your mother.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“Yes.”
The word landed like a stone.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
My father.
My mother.
Grant.
The family tree I knew was disintegrating.
“Did you have an affair with my mother?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before I met your mother publicly.”
I looked at him.
“But Mother was already married.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“She wasn't.”
I frowned.
“Then who was she?”
He looked at the floor.
“Isabel Reyes.”
Not Eleanor Vance.
Not the woman whose photograph had hung in our home.
Not the woman whose death certificate I had grown up believing.
“She wasn't married to anyone.”
“Then why did she become Eleanor Vance?”
“To protect you.”
“From Richard?”
“Yes.”
“And Grant?”
“To protect him.”
I looked at Grant.
“Why?”
My father took a breath.
“Because Richard believed Grant was his son.”
Grant stared.
“He wasn't?”
“No.”
“Then why did you let him believe it?”
“Because it kept him alive.”
I shook my head.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does if you understand Richard.”
My father walked toward the wall of files.
“Richard wanted an heir.”
“He had children.”
“None he trusted.”
“Grant?”
“He thought Grant was his.”
“Why?”
“Because Isabel was carrying Grant when she left.”
I felt cold.
“When was Grant born?”
“Six months before your mother disappeared.”
I stared.
That didn't match.
The timeline was wrong.
“Then how was Grant twenty years old when I married him?”
My father turned.
“He wasn't.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Grant was twenty-seven.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“But his documents—”
“Were false.”
I looked at Grant.
He was staring at the floor.
“How old are you?”
He didn't answer.
I whispered:
“How old are you?”
He finally looked at me.
“Thirty-four.”
My breath caught.
Seven years older than I thought.
Seven years of lies.
Seven years of fake documents.
Seven years of pretending.
I stepped away.
“Why?”
Grant's voice was quiet.
“Because if you knew my real age, you'd start asking questions.”
“I should have asked.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Of Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Of my father?”
Grant looked at Arthur.
“No.”
“Then who?”
Grant looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“Because she told me never to tell you.”
I couldn't understand.
“My mother was protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“From what?”
“The truth about your birth.”
I stared.
“My birth?”
My father looked at me.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You were not supposed to be born.”
I felt the room disappear.
“What does that mean?”
He took a breath.
“Your mother was pregnant with you when she discovered Richard's crimes.”
“So?”
“Richard wanted the pregnancy terminated.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why?”
“Because he believed you weren't his.”
I stared.
“Who did he think my father was?”
My father didn't answer.
I already knew.
“Did he think you were my father?”
“Yes.”
I couldn't breathe.
“That is why he tried to kill her.”
“Yes.”
“And that's why she disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you tell me she died?”
“Because Richard was still looking for you.”
I shook my head.
“Twenty-two years.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe my mother was dead.”
“Yes.”
“You let me grow up thinking I had no mother.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I thought it was the only way to keep you alive.”
I turned away.
“You don't get to decide that.”
“I know.”
“You don't get to erase my mother.”
“I know.”
“You don't get to erase my life.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“What was your greatest lie?”
He stared at me.
“The one I told myself.”
“What?”
“That keeping you alive was worth letting you hate me.”
Grant stood.
He looked at my father.
“Did you love her?”
My father nodded.
“More than anything.”
“Then why didn't you take us away?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“The night Richard found out.”
Grant's expression changed.
“What happened?”
“Richard came to the house.”
“Did he know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He threatened Isabel.”
“With what?”
“You.”
Grant went pale.
My father continued.
“He told her that if she ran, he would kill the baby.”
Grant looked down.
“And she believed him.”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“She disappeared.”
“Where?”
“Mexico.”
Grant stared.
“Why didn't you follow?”
“Because Richard was watching me.”
I looked at my father.
“And me?”
“You weren't born yet.”
I felt sick.
“You let her go alone.”
“Yes.”
“You could have saved her.”
“I thought I was.”
The room became quiet.
Then Grant asked:
“Who was my biological father?”
My father looked at him.
“I was.”
Grant nodded slowly.
“Then why did Isabel call me her son?”
“Because you were.”
Grant frowned.
“I mean biologically.”
My father looked at me.
“She was your mother.”
Grant shook his head.
“That's not what I mean.”
My father hesitated.
Then:
“Isabel was your biological mother.”
Grant's face tightened.
“Then why did Thomas say otherwise?”
“Because Thomas knew the truth could destroy Richard.”
“What truth?”
My father looked at the DNA report.
“Richard wasn't your father.”
Grant stared.
“I know.”
“But Richard wasn't the only person who believed he was.”
“Who else?”
“Everyone.”
My father looked at me.
“Except your mother.”
I felt a chill.
“What are you saying?”
He answered slowly.
“Grant was never the child Richard thought he was.”
“Then what was he?”
My father looked at Grant.
“He was a decoy.”
Grant stood completely still.
“A decoy for what?”
My father walked toward the old files.
“Richard was hunting a child.”
“Which child?”
“Yours.”
I stared.
“My child?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Your mother's.”
I didn't understand.
“Grant?”
“No.”
He opened a file.
Inside was an old photograph.
A newborn baby.
A hospital bracelet.
The name:
Claire Reyes.
I stopped breathing.
My father looked at me.
“This is you.”
I stared at the photograph.
“That's not possible.”
“You were born under your mother's real surname.”
“Why did I become Claire Vance?”
“Because Richard was looking for you.”
I looked at Grant.
“Then what was he?”
My father pointed to another photograph.
A young boy.
Same eyes.
Same scar.
But a different face.
“Grant was the child Richard thought was you.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Your mother switched your identities.”
“Why?”
“To save you.”
My head spun.
“Then who was the baby who died?”
My father closed the file.
“The baby Richard believed was you.”
I felt sick.
“A decoy.”
“Yes.”
“Someone died pretending to be me.”
My father nodded.
“And Grant?”
“He was the surviving child.”
I looked at Grant.
“Then why was he raised as Daniel?”
“Because Isabel needed him hidden.”
“From Richard.”
“Yes.”
“From Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“And from you?”
My father looked away.
“No.”
I frowned.
“Why not you?”
“Because I knew the truth.”
I stared at him.
“And that's your greatest lie?”
He nodded.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“My greatest lie was telling you that your mother died.”
He paused.
“She didn't.”
“Where is she?”
His face went pale.
“Six months ago, I received a message from her.”
“What did it say?”
He looked at the floor.
“She said Richard had found her.”
My heart stopped.
“Where was she?”
“Mexico.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You went there.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I found her house.”
“Was she there?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
He looked at me.
“Blood.”
My chest tightened.
“Whose?”
“We don't know.”
I couldn't speak.
Then Grant stepped forward.
“My mother is alive.”
My father looked at him.
“I believe she is.”
“Then we're finding her.”
“Yes.”
I looked at both men.
For the first time, there was no argument.
No secrets.
No pretending.
Just one goal.
Find my mother.
But before we could leave, Miriam rushed down the stairs.
Her face was white.
“Claire.”
“What?”
She held up her phone.
“Someone breached the company server.”
“Who?”
“They accessed your mother's trust.”
“When?”
“Three minutes ago.”
My father frowned.
“What did they take?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Nothing.”
“Then what did they do?”
“They changed the beneficiary.”
My heart dropped.
“To whom?”
Miriam turned the screen toward me.
A new name appeared.
Grant Whitmore.
I stared.
“That isn't possible.”
Miriam shook her head.
“It was authorized using your mother's original biometric signature.”
My father went still.
“She's alive.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He whispered:
“Only the living can authorize that.”
I felt hope for the first time in twenty-two years.
My mother was alive.
But then Miriam's phone rang.
She answered.
Her face changed.
“Where?”
She listened.
Then looked at me.
“They found a woman in Mexico.”
My heart stopped.
“Is it my mother?”
Miriam didn't answer immediately.
“Claire…”
“What?”
“She says her name is Isabel Reyes.”
I almost collapsed.
“She's alive.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look terrified?”
Miriam swallowed.
“Because she didn't call the police.”
“Who did she call?”
Miriam looked at my father.
“Richard.”
Silence.
Then my father's phone rang.
He answered.
A man's voice came through.
Cold.
Calm.
Older than I remembered.
Richard.
“Arthur.”
My father froze.
Richard laughed.
“You finally found her.”
My father gripped the phone.
“Where is she?”
“You know where.”
“What do you want?”
A pause.
“Claire.”
My father looked at me.
Richard continued.
“Bring me your daughter.”
My blood turned cold.
“And I'll give you Isabel.”
My father said nothing.
Richard laughed again.
“But if you bring the police…”
His voice hardened.
“She dies.”
The call ended.
I stared at my father.
He looked at me.
“No.”
I shook my head.
“What?”
“You're not going.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
“He has my mother.”
“He wants you.”
“Exactly.”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
I picked up the photograph of Isabel.
For twenty-two years, everyone had made decisions about my life.
My mother disappeared to protect me.
My father lied to protect me.
Grant married me to protect me.
Thomas manipulated me.
Richard hunted me.
But now they had all made the same mistake.
They thought protecting me meant controlling me.
I looked at my father.
“I'm going.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Claire.”
I held his gaze.
“This time, Dad, you don't get to decide.”
He stared at me.
Then slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.
Grant stepped beside me.
“I'll go with her.”
My father looked at him.
“No.”
Grant didn't move.
“She's my sister.”
I froze.
My father closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
The word hung in the air.
Then he looked at both of us.
“And that's the truth I should have told you twenty-two years ago.”
I picked up my mother's photograph.
For the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I was going.
Not toward my inheritance.
Not toward revenge.
Toward the woman who had sacrificed everything to keep me alive.
My mother.
And somewhere in Mexico, Richard was waiting.
He thought he had finally found a way to control me.
He was wrong.
Because this time—
May you like
I wasn't going to him as his victim.
I was going to him with the truth.
