I stood.
“How do you know my father?”
The stranger looked as though he had waited half his life to hear that question.
“My name is Charles Mercer.”
His voice broke slightly.
“And your father was the closest friend I ever had.”
Charles took me to his home in Beverly Glen that night.
Not because I asked him to.
Because the moment he realized who I was, he refused to let me disappear.
His housekeeper made tea.
A guest room was prepared.
Someone carried my suitcase upstairs.
Nobody asked me why my marriage had failed.
Nobody told me I should forgive Grant.
Nobody asked what I had done to make him cheat.
For the first time in years, I entered a house where no one expected me to apologize for existing.
I barely slept.
My mind kept circling back to one question.
How had Charles Mercer known my father?
The next morning, I walked downstairs and heard two men talking in the kitchen.
One voice belonged to Charles.
The other stopped me cold.
I stepped around the corner.
Dr. Lucas Mercer was pouring coffee.
