« Tell the truth, » replied Oliver, very seriously. « Because lying is wrong. »
We approached the ballroom. The sounds of the party were overflowing—jazz music, laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses. We passed through the checkpoint.
« Name? » asked the agent, his eyes on his list.
« We’re not on the list, » I replied calmly. « But please tell Margaret Windsor that Annabelle is here. And that I brought something she lost. »
The guard looked disoriented, but spoke into his earpiece.
A few minutes later, the crowd near the entrance parted. Margaret appeared. She looked older, her face etched with the marks of years spent maintaining her empire, but her eyes were still as cold as ever. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me.
Then she saw Oliver.
The blood left her face so quickly that I thought she was going to faint.
« Hello, Margaret, » I said. « I thought it was time you met your grandson. »
Oliver took a step forward.
« Are you my grandma? » he asked. « Mom says my dad lives here. »
Margaret’s face went from astonishment to calculation, then to fury.
« Get them out of here! » she hissed at the guards. « This is a setup! She’s crazy! »
« I wouldn’t do it in your place, » I said, raising my voice slightly, just enough to attract attention. « Unless you want me to shout the truth to the senator’s daughter right now. »
The guests were beginning to notice our presence. Phones were raised. The murmur grew louder.
« That proves nothing! » spat Margaret, even though her hands were trembling. « That child could be anyone’s! »
« He looks like the portrait in your hallway, » I said calmly. I pulled a thick folder from my bag. « I have the real DNA tests, Margaret. The genuine ones. From three certified labs. I also have the statement from the graphic designer you paid to create the deepfakes. And the bank statements for the transfers you made to him. »
« You can’t prove anything here, » she sneered.
« I don’t need to convince you of that. »
I looked beyond her.
At the entrance to the garden, under an arch of white roses, stood Jonathan.
His arm was around his new wife, Rebecca. He looked tired. Not happy—just resigned. He looked like a man playing a role in a play he didn’t understand.
Our eyes met across the crowd.
Time stood still. The noise of the party faded into a distant murmur. I saw his eyes widen. I saw the champagne flute slip from his fingers and shatter on the flagstones.
Then his gaze fell upon Oliver.
I watched him do the calculation. I saw gratitude rise in his eyes like a sunrise after a long polar night.
Oliver, my brave Oliver, let go of my hand. He went through the crowd, which parted before him like the Red Sea. He went straight to the groom.
« Is your name Jonathan? » he asked. His clear, childlike voice echoed in the sudden silence of the five hundred guests.
Jonathan was speechless. He nodded, his eyes immediately filling with tears.
« Mom says you’re my dad, » said Oliver. « But you left before I was born. »
Oliver inclined his head—that same gesture, that genetic inclination.
« Why did you leave? »
The entire reception held its breath. Rebecca took a step back, looking back and forth between the young man and her husband. The truth was written on Oliver’s face like a confession.
Jonathan fell to his knees. He scoffed at his tuxedo. He lowered himself to Oliver’s level.
« I… » Jonathan swallowed a sob. « I made a mistake. I believed lies. I was… I was lost. »
« Lying is wrong, » said Oliver. « Mom says you have to tell the truth, even when it’s scary. »
« Your mom is right. » Jonathan held out a trembling hand, hovering it near Oliver’s cheek without daring to touch him.
Oliver took a small piece of paper out of his pocket.
« I did this for you. In case I ever find you. »
He gave it to him. Jonathan unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a drawing of two stick figures holding hands—one tall, one short. Underneath, Oliver had written: *I love you even though you don’t know me.*
Jonathan let out a sound like a wounded animal. A raw sob, torn from the depths of his chest.
« That’s my son, » Jonathan whispered. Then he shouted it, turning to his mother:
« That’s my son! Look at him, Mother! Look at him and tell me he’s not mine! »
Margaret pushed her way through the panicked crowd.
« It’s a charade! She’s manipulating you! She— »
« That’s enough! » Jonathan’s voice cracked like thunder. He stood up, lifting Oliver into his arms. Oliver immediately wrapped his small arms around his neck, as if he had always belonged there, as if he had never been meant to be anywhere else.
« The marriage DNA tests were fake! » I proclaimed, stepping into the circle. « Margaret fabricated everything. She destroyed our family because she wanted to control everything. And for five years, she let her son believe his child was someone else’s. »
Rebecca, the bride, looked at Margaret. Then she looked at Jonathan holding his son. She reached for her veil, untied it, and let it fall to the ground. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away.
« Jonathan, » Margaret implored. « I did this for you! For the Windsor name! »
« You have destroyed the Windsor name, » Jonathan spat.
He walked towards me. The crowd disappeared. There was only us.
« Annabelle, » he sobbed. « Will you ever be able to forgive me? »
I looked at the man I had loved, and the child we had conceived, and I knew that the answer was not a simple yes or no.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, my voice trembling. “But Oliver deserves a father. We can start there.”
« I’ll do whatever it takes, » Jonathan promised. « Everything. »
Eleanor appeared beside me, holding a microphone she had retrieved from the group. She handed it to me.
« Finish it, » she whispered.
I turned towards the crowd. Towards the cameras. Towards the world.
« Margaret Windsor destroyed seven families, » I declared, my voice echoing throughout the estate. « Seven women. Seven lives. It ends today. The truth is out there. »
We left.
We didn’t stay to see the damage. Jonathan left with us, Oliver in his arms, leaving his mother screaming amidst the ruins she herself had created. He got into his car—the same one he’d fled in five years earlier—and followed us.
The video went viral before we even reached the highway. *The groom’s secret son crashes the wedding.* Margaret was devastated. Within weeks, other victims came forward. Lawsuits piled up. The Windsors’ reputation crumbled.
But we didn’t care about any of that anymore. What mattered was us.
Rebuilding wasn’t just a matter of a pretty musical montage. It was difficult.
Jonathan settled in Millbrook. He bought a small house two blocks from my apartment. He didn’t force anything. He didn’t demand anything. He earned his place.
He learned Oliver’s schedule. He showed up for football practice. He endured the tantrums. He learned how to be the father of a little boy who had only ever known a ghost.
And slowly, painfully, we relearned to be « us ».
See more on the next page
Advertisement
