My Daughter Was Named a Lie

Sitting on the private jet back home, I called Maeve's personal nanny, Dotty. She had worked for our family for years and even raised me when I was little—she was the one person I trusted completely.

The phone rang and rang. No answer.

I tried the chef, the early education tutor, and the driver I had arranged for Maeve before leaving the country. Not a single one picked up.

As a frown creased my brow, Aaron's video call came through. Without hesitation, I answered.

"Hi, darling! Why haven't you called me all day? I've been missing you like crazy."

Seeing him, his expression was as infuriatingly tender as ever, his gaze so clingy it could stretch like glue. Eight years of marriage, and he had always obeyed my every word. He wouldn't dare go against me, let alone cheat and father an illegitimate child.

I wasn't about to tip my hand before confirming the facts. I went straight to the point.

"Where's Maeve? I want her. Let her come to the phone."

"It's Maeve's birthday today. She invited a bunch of classmates over. They're having fun in the yard."

The camera panned slightly, and I saw the villa decorated with cakes, flowers, and balloons. Children were gathered in the courtyard, watching a magician perform. All eyes were on a little girl in a white lace dress at the center, like the sun around which everyone revolved.

Though her face was unclear from the distance, her height and posture looked like Maeve's.

"I'll have her video call you when we cut the cake," Aaron said, calmly returning the camera. His expression was composed, showing no sign of guilt or deceit.

After hanging up, my heart eased slightly. Maybe the video I had seen earlier was just fabricated news meant to provoke me. After all, even if Aaron was unreliable, the caretakers I left for Maeve were all my trusted aides. If anything went wrong, I would know immediately.

Once the plane landed, I didn't waste a second and drove straight home.

As soon as my car pulled up to the gate, a silver-pink Panamera—identical to mine—came barreling toward me, honking aggressively.

I froze. My eyes narrowed in suspicion.

My car wasn't a mass-produced color. It was custom-made for Maeve because she loved it. The designer had mixed the paint to her exact preference; without the formula, no one in the world could reproduce it.

Who on earth was in that car?

I was still frowning when the passenger door opened. A little girl in a white lace dress—exactly the same girl I had seen in Aaron's video—jumped out.

She looked seven or eight, her hair in princess braids, the hem of her dress embroidered with the Meyer family logo.

It was the custom children's clothing logo I had designed exclusively for Maeve last year. The copyright was registered under her name. No one except the two of us could legally use it.

She ran up to my car, small shoes clattering, and knocked on the window with her cream-covered hands, her face twisted in disdain.