Chapter 5 - The Shattered Mirror
Bradley turned toward his mother, his expression one of utter, unadulterated horror.
“Mom…” Bradley whispered, taking a step backward away from her, as if she were a venomous snake coiled to strike. “You told me Grant adopted Maisie because he was lonely. You told Megan and me not to let the girls get too close to her because… because she was from a troubled background.”
“I did what was necessary to preserve this family!” Evelyn shrieked, turning on Bradley with a ferocious, bared-teeth intensity. “You think your comfortable house in Myers Park was paid for by your mediocre sales salary, Bradley? It was paid for by the trust loans your father secured against that Buncombe land! You lived off that money! Your children’s private school tuition was paid by that money!”
Bradley looked as if he were going to vomit. He dropped his hands to his sides, staring at his parents as if he were seeing them for the very first time in his thirty-five years of life.
“You stole Clara’s baby,” Bradley breathed. “You hid a baby from your own son… for money?”
“It wasn't just money!” Evelyn cried, her hands flailing wildly in the air. “Grant was obsessed with Clara! She was a nobody! A botanist with no pedigree, no society connections! If Grant had married her, he would have run off to the mountains and abandoned the family firm! We were protecting his future!”
I didn't say a word.
I walked around the desk to where Maisie was sitting on the sofa.
She was looking at me, her wide hazel eyes reflecting the green light of the lamp, completely bewildered by the shouting, the tears, and the venom filling the room.
I dropped to my knees in front of her again.
“Maisie,” I said, my voice dropping into a gentle, steady hum that shut out the chaos around us.
“Daddy?” she whispered. “Are you crying?”
I hadn't even realized the hot tears were streaming down my face, dripping from my chin onto the red wool of her dress.
I reached out and gently took her small, chapped hands in mine. I brought them to my lips and kissed the backs of her knuckles, feeling the raw, dry skin that my mother had forced into hot dishwater.
“Sweetheart… do you remember the picture I showed you on my nightstand? The picture of the lady with the flowers in her hair?”
Maisie nodded slowly. “Clara. You said she was an angel in heaven.”
“She was,” I whispered, my voice breaking on a sob that I couldn't hold back any longer. “And Maisie… she was your mommy.”
Maisie blinked at me. Her small brow furrowed in confusion. “My mommy?”
“Yes, my darling,” I choked out, wrapping my arms around her tiny frame and pulling her tightly against my chest. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair—pine, lemon soap, and the sweet, pure essence of the girl I had loved seven years ago. “She was your mommy. And you are my real daughter. You have always been my real daughter. Not by paperwork. Not by adoption. You were made from my heart and her heart. You belong to me, Maisie. You have always belonged to me.”
Maisie’s small arms wrapped around my neck, clinging to me with an instinctive, ferocious strength that no six-year-old should have had to summon. She didn't fully understand the legal documents, the millions of dollars, or the seven years of lies.
But she understood love.
“I’m your real girl?” she whispered into my ear.
“You’re my real girl,” I sobbed into her hair. “You are Clara’s girl. And you are mine.”
Behind me, the brass cane hit the desk with a heavy, threatening thud.
“That’s enough sentimentality,” Richard growled.
I didn't let go of Maisie, but I turned my head to look at him.
My father was standing over the desk, leaning his weight forward on his palms. His face had hardened into the cold, ruthless expression he used when crushing subcontracting unions or pushing foreclosures through court.
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“You have the documents,” Richard said, his voice flat and deadly serious. “You know the truth. But you need to listen to what happens next very carefully, Grant.”
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