Chapter 3

I sent their hair samples to a private paternity testing center, requesting an expedited result. Money wasn't an issue. To think I once clung to Hugh as my lifeline, and trusted Yvonne as my family. In the end, it was all a meticulously crafted lie.

Uncovering the truth wasn't about wallowing in pain—it was about opening the eyes I'd kept "blind" for five years and finally seeing these people for who they truly were.

I considered my options. After all these years, most evidence must have been destroyed. But there was one place, a slim chance. She wouldn't have changed that much. I decided to return to Voss Manor.

Standing outside the gates, a mix of bitterness and cold dread churned within me. I had been separated from my family as a child and was only reunited at the age of twenty when they found me. But from the moment I returned, I felt like an outsider, a misfit forcing her way into their lives. My biological parents had been distant, cold. It was Yvonne who played the mediator, smoothing things over, ensuring there were holiday greetings and polite exchanges. Now, looking back, I wondered how much of that was her manipulation.

Others might not have questioned it, but my parents must have known at first glance that the child wasn't mine—it was Yvonne's.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, hesitated when she saw me at the door. "Miss Jane, you've returned. I'll inform Lady Eleanor."

I nodded, pretending to feel my way along the wall as I moved inside. The charade of "blindness" had to continue.

"Well, isn't this a surprise! Not a holiday, not a special occasion, yet here you are!"

My mother's voice carried its usual sharpness and derision.

My father glanced at me briefly, his face stern, but he said nothing.

I greeted them vaguely, directing my attention roughly in their direction. "I just came to collect some of my old belongings."

Along the way, I stumbled and bumped into things several times. But I wasn't heading to my room. Once I was sure no one was following, I made my way straight to Yvonne's bedroom. Her compulsive need to share everything had always been her weakness. Even things that should've been hidden, she felt compelled to document. She couldn't confide in others, so she forced herself to record it somehow. That trait had always been evident. During our years of pretending to be loving sisters, I'd learned her little habits, just as she had learned my routines.

She had hurt me five years ago. Now it was time for that boomerang to swing back. It didn't take much effort to find what I was looking for—a hidden compartment in her drawer. It was one of our little shared secrets from years ago. There wasn't time to go through everything, so I calmly photographed all of it, ensuring I had a record.