"Vivian, why are you... so interested in my past today?" Wendy asked, her voice tight.
I let out a short, bright laugh. "Just making conversation, Wendy," I said, picking up my empty serving tray from the glass table. "You're so protective of your secrets. I won't pry."
Damien scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You have a terrible sense of humor, Vivian. Go find a hobby instead of harassing our guests."
"Maybe I will," I replied. "Since you two seem to have Leo's entire future mapped out without me."
"Someone has to do it," Damien shot back. "You're too soft on him."
"Right," I agreed flatly. "I'll leave you to your planning."
I turned my back on them and walked out of the living room. I kept my pace even, climbing the curved staircase to the second floor. My pulse hammered against my ribs, a steady, violent rhythm.
I entered my bedroom and pushed the heavy oak door shut until the latch clicked.
I crossed the room to the walk-in closet, knelt in the back corner, and dragged out a vintage leather suitcase. My fingers found the hidden zipper tucked beneath the interior silk lining. I pulled out a small, rusted tin box.
The metal felt cold against my palms. I carried it over to the vanity table and pried the lid off.
Inside lay two plastic hospital wristbands.
I lifted the first one. *Baby Boy Ashford.* I had brought this band home sixteen years ago, fastened around Leo's tiny ankle. I set it down on the glass surface. The plastic was yellowed, the ink faded from years of sitting in a baby book before I finally moved it to the safe.
Then I reached into the tin and pulled out the second band.
I had paid a retired hospital administrator ten thousand dollars in cash for this exact piece of plastic twelve years ago. The names were identical. The birth dates matched. But the serial numbers printed beneath the barcodes did not. The second band belonged to Caleb. It was the original tag, the one Wendy had removed before slipping her own son's band onto my child.
I placed Caleb's band right next to Leo's.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, snapped a photo of the two bands, and opened my encrypted messaging app. I selected Sutton's contact thread and attached the image.
*Delivery room nurse = Wendy,* I typed out. *Physical evidence complete.*
I hit send.
Less than ten seconds later, my phone vibrated. Sutton's name flashed across the screen. I swiped to answer.
"I got the photo," Sutton said, his voice crisp. "Two bands. You're absolutely sure the second one is the original?"
"Positive," I answered, keeping my voice low. "The serial numbers match the archived hospital logs we pulled last year."
"And the nurse?" he pressed. "You're sure it's Wendy?"
"I just saw the surgical scar on her right wrist," I told him. "It perfectly matches the blurry photo from the hospital's HR file. She didn't just hire someone, Sutton. She put on the scrubs and made the switch herself."
"So Damien's mistress played the intern," Sutton muttered. "Bold."
"Arrogant," I corrected. "They thought I'd never look. They thought I was too weak to question a medical error."
"I'll submit the photo to the private lab for secondary verification," Sutton said. "Do we move on the lawsuit next week?"
"Next week," I confirmed. "Draft the papers. I want everything ready."
"Understood. Talk soon."
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed.
Downstairs, a door slammed hard enough to rattle the floorboards.
"I said I don't want to go to Boston!" Leo's voice echoed up the stairwell, sharp and angry.
"Leo, sweetie, come back here," Wendy called out. Her tone shifted from professional consultant to pleading mother. "We just need to finish the application essay. It'll take ten minutes."
"Do it yourself!" Leo shouted.
Heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs. He was throwing a tantrum because his summer plans didn't align with his mood. Sixteen years of entitlement, funded by my bank accounts, nurtured by Damien's arrogance.
I stared down at the two wristbands. I needed to put them back in the tin box. I reached for the faded plastic.
Before my fingers brushed the table, the bedroom door flew open.
It swung wide, hitting the wall stop with a loud crack.
I spun around.
Leo stood in the doorway. His face was flushed, his jaw set in a stubborn line. He had skipped knocking entirely.
"Tell Dad to stop forcing me into these stupid camps," Leo demanded, stepping into the room. "I'm not doing it."
"You need to knock before entering my room, Leo," I said, keeping my voice level.
He ignored me. He took another step forward, ready to launch into a full complaint.
Then he stopped.
His gaze dropped. He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was staring past my shoulder, straight at the glass vanity table. I hadn't moved fast enough to block his view.
Leo frowned, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the two pieces of plastic resting side by side. He took another step closer, his anger suddenly replaced by raw confusion.
"What are these?"
