Chapter 2

I couldn't stay in that room for another second.

The moment Grandpa finished speaking, I turned around and ran, ignoring the voices calling after me as I rushed up the staircase. My vision was blurred by tears, and I barely noticed when my shoulder struck the wall at the corner. I kept going until I reached my bedroom, pushed the door open, and slammed it shut behind me before locking it.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

I stood with my back against the door, staring at the handle as if someone might come in and tell me everything had been a terrible mistake. My heart was beating so hard that I could hear it in my ears, and my hands trembled uncontrollably as I tried to wipe away the tears running down my cheeks.

"Seren, open the door!" I heard Dad call from the other side.

I closed my eyes.

"Please, sweetheart. Let us talk about this."

Sweetheart.

That was what he had always called me, ever since I was little enough to fall asleep in his arms. Whenever I was frightened, he would pull me close and promise that nothing bad would ever happen to his little girl as long as he was alive.

So how could the same man sit in that living room and tell me I wasn't his daughter?

I pressed my palms against my ears, desperately trying to shut out his voice.

"Go away!" I screamed.

There was a brief silence before Mom spoke.

"Seren, please open the door. I want to see you."

I covered my mouth to stop myself from crying louder, but the sob that escaped me was impossible to hide.

I wanted her to come inside. I wanted her to wrap her arms around me, stroke my hair, and tell me that everything was going to be all right. More than anything, I wanted to hear her say that I was her daughter and that nobody could ever take that away from me.

But I was also terrified of opening the door because I didn't know what she would say if I looked her in the eyes again.

Would she still call me her baby?

Would she still kiss my forehead?

Would she look at me the same way she had that morning, or would I see that strange distance in her eyes again?

I couldn't bear the thought of finding out.

"Please leave me alone," I whispered, even though I knew they could barely hear me.

Their footsteps lingered outside for a while before slowly fading away, but I didn't move from my position until I was certain they were gone. Even then, I remained against the door, staring blankly at the floor as my mind replayed every word I had heard downstairs.

You are not our biological child.

The results are conclusive.

You are not a Whitmore.

I shook my head violently.

"No."

The word came out weakly, but I repeated it anyway, as though saying it enough times could change what had happened.

"No, no, no."

I had watched movies about children who were switched at birth, and I remembered laughing at the ridiculous situations they found themselves in when the truth finally came out. Sometimes, the parents discovered the mistake after eighteen years, and the children were forced to choose between the family that raised them and the one they had never known. Other times, someone deliberately exchanged the babies because they wanted money, revenge, or a better life for their own child.

I had always felt sorry for those characters, but even then, the possibility had seemed so far removed from my own life that I had never imagined it could happen to me.

How could it?

I was Seren Whitmore.

I had grown up in this mansion, attended the best schools, and spent every Christmas and birthday surrounded by the same people. There were childhood photographs of me hanging along the hallway, family portraits displayed in the living room, and memories attached to almost every corner of the house.

If I wasn't their daughter, then what was I?

Where had I come from?

Who were my real parents?

And why had nobody told me anything until my eighteenth birthday?

The questions came so quickly that I couldn't even begin to answer them. Every time I tried to make sense of one thing, another thought came along to tear apart whatever little comfort I had managed to find.

Perhaps the hospital had made a mistake.

That had to be it.

Babies were born every day, and hospitals handled hundreds of deliveries. Maybe someone had written the wrong name on a document, or perhaps the DNA samples had been mixed up with those of another family. There were so many possible explanations, and I was willing to accept every single one of them as long as it meant I could wake up tomorrow and return to the life I knew.

I reached for my phone and opened my messages, searching for Leander's name.

His birthday message was still there, sitting at the top of our conversation.

Happy birthday, Seren. I'll see you tonight.

I stared at it for a long time before my fingers began moving across the screen.

Me: Leander, something terrible has happened.

I stopped, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

What was I supposed to tell him?

That my family had suddenly decided I didn't belong to them? That the people who had raised me for eighteen years were looking at me as if I were a stranger? That I was sitting alone in my bedroom, terrified that everything I had ever known was about to disappear?

I couldn't bring myself to send the message.

Instead, I deleted it and tried again.

Me: Can you please come over? I need you.

I sent it before I could change my mind, then placed the phone on the bed and waited.

Leander would come.

He always came when I needed him.

By the time evening settled over the mansion, I had moved from the door to the middle of my bedroom, but I hadn't done anything else. I sat on the floor with my knees drawn against my chest, staring at the wall while the light outside my window slowly disappeared.

My phone remained beside me.

Leander hadn't replied.

I tried calling him once, but the call rang until it disconnected. I told myself he was probably busy, perhaps attending a meeting with his father or dealing with something at Knox Enterprises. I knew his family expected a lot from him, and I had never been the kind of person who demanded his attention every minute of the day.

Still, I couldn't stop checking my phone.

Every time the screen lit up, hope rose inside me, only to disappear when I saw a notification from someone else.

Eventually, there was a knock at my door.

"Seren, dinner is ready," one of the housekeepers called gently.

"I'm not hungry."

"Your mother asked me to tell you that you should come downstairs."

I turned toward the door but said nothing.

After a few seconds, the housekeeper spoke again.

"Please, miss. Everyone is waiting."

I almost laughed at that.

Everyone was waiting for me to sit at the same dining table where I had eaten thousands of meals, pretending that my world hadn't fallen apart. They probably expected me to wash my face, fix my hair, and come downstairs as if nothing had happened. Perhaps they thought that after a few hours of crying, I would be ready to accept that the only family I had ever known no longer considered me one of their own.

I couldn't do it.

"Tell them I'm not coming," I replied.

The housekeeper hesitated before leaving, and a few minutes later, I heard another knock.

This time, it was Mom.

"Seren, darling, please eat something. You haven't had anything since lunch."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Go away, Mom."

The words came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn't take them back.

There was a pause on the other side of the door.

"I know you're upset," she said softly. "I know this is difficult for you, but we need to talk."

I pressed my forehead against my knees.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Of course there is."

"Then tell me why you lied to me for eighteen years!"

My voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and I immediately covered my mouth.

Mom didn't respond for a long time.

When she finally spoke, her voice sounded as though she had been crying again.

"We didn't know, Seren."

I stared at the door.

"You didn't know?"

"No, sweetheart. We only found out recently."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to take those words and hold them close because, if she was telling the truth, then perhaps I could still find a way back to the life I had lost.

But another thought crept into my mind.

"If you only found out recently, why did Grandpa say the results were conclusive? Why did nobody even consider the possibility that the test was wrong?"

Mom didn't answer immediately.

"Please come downstairs," she finally said. "We can discuss everything tomorrow when you've had some rest."

I let out a bitter laugh.

"Tomorrow?"

My eyes filled with tears again.

"You've just told me that I'm not your daughter, and you want me to sleep on it until tomorrow?"

"Seren, please."

"No!"

I stood up so suddenly that my knees nearly gave way.

"I don't want dinner. I don't want to talk. I don't want to see anyone!"

My voice echoed through the bedroom.

"Just leave me alone!"

Mom said nothing else.

I heard her footsteps moving away, and when the silence returned, I looked around my room as though I were seeing it for the first time.

Everything was exactly where I had left it that morning. My birthday dress hung neatly beside the wardrobe, my shoes were arranged beneath the mirror, and the framed photographs on my bedside table showed me smiling with the people who had just told me I didn't belong to them.

I walked toward the photographs and picked up the first frame.

It was taken when I was six, during a family holiday. Dad had been carrying me on his shoulders, while Mom stood beside him with one hand resting against my leg to keep me from falling. Grandpa was in the background, looking stern as usual, but I remembered that he had bought me ice cream shortly after the photograph was taken.

I smiled in the picture.

I looked so happy.

My fingers tightened around the frame.

"Were you pretending?" I whispered.

I looked at Dad's face.

"Did you know?"

Then I turned toward Mom.

"Did you ever love me?"

The photograph offered no answers.

I dropped it onto the bed and picked up another one, then another, until I had covered the mattress with pictures from birthdays, holidays, school ceremonies, and family gatherings. Every image reminded me of a moment I had once treasured, and with every passing second, I felt as though someone were reaching into my chest and tearing those memories away from me.

I couldn't bear it anymore.

I swept the photographs off the bed, sending them crashing to the floor.