Los moretones parecían demasiado fáciles.
Las fiebres llegaron demasiado rápido.
Los médicos habían explicado que el marcador de sangre era raro, heredado, manejable con el cuidado adecuado, pero potencialmente peligroso en las circunstancias equivocadas.
Blake carried it.
Eli did too.
Noah and Lucas did not.
“Why would Martin care?” I whispered.
Julian opened the folder.
Inside were photographs, bank transfers, printed emails, and a private investigator’s report.
A photograph slipped free.
I picked it up.
My breath caught.
Martin Vale stood outside a private clinic.
Beside him was Adrian Cho.
And beside Adrian stood Vanessa Harrington.
Blake’s mother.
Elegant. Silver-haired. Impeccable.
A woman who had once kissed my cheek at galas and corrected the way I held my champagne glass.
A woman who smiled like grace and cut like glass.
I remembered what she had whispered to me on my wedding day.
“You may have his heart now, Emma, but families like ours are not built on love. They are built on legacy.”
