Mr.X
“Actually, I'm here to make everything between us perfectly clear.”
“Great,” X says, holding the envelope. He looks at it and then raises an eyebrow in confusion. “What's this?”
“A paternity test,” I say without hesitation. “For my son Juan. He might be the result of our night of passion in Africa.”
“Impossible,” X says, handing me back the envelope.
“It's possible. Do the math,” I retort, not holding back the envelope.
“Impossible,” X repeats, tossing the envelope onto the coffee table.
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