Chapter 1

The letter from the lab felt cold in my hand.

Lily, my six-year-old daughter, was Type AB.

I remembered the school health fair a few months ago. They did a fun little blood typing event.

Lily had come home, proudly showing me her card: "Look, Mommy, I'm AB!"

Ethan, my husband, was Type A. I am Type O.

It was impossible for us to have a Type AB child.

I told myself it was a mistake. A school fair, volunteers, probably a mix-up.

But the thought stayed. A small, sharp thing.

So I arranged a DNA test. Discreetly. A kit I ordered online.

The results were in this envelope.

"The alleged mother, Clara Hayes, is excluded as the biological mother of the child, Lily Cole."

My breath stopped.

The words blurred.

Lily was not my daughter.

The kitchen floor felt like it was tilting. I grabbed the counter.

My daughter. My Lily.

Six years of lullabies, scraped knees, bedtime stories.

A lie.

My entire life, a lie.

I waited for Ethan to come home from work. The DNA report was on the coffee table.

He walked in, smiling, loosening his tie. "Rough day, honey?"

I pointed to the paper. "What is this, Ethan?"

He picked it up. Read it.

His face didn't change much. A flicker in his eyes, maybe.

"Clara, you're stressed. This is obviously a mistake. Some fly-by-night lab trying to drum up business." He tossed it back on the table.

"It's not a mistake, Ethan. I checked the lab. It's reputable." My voice was flat.

He sighed. Sat down. Took my hands.

"Okay, okay. Don't panic. If this... if this is true, there must be an explanation. A mix-up at the hospital when Lily was born. It happens. Rare, but it happens."

His voice was so calm. So reasonable.

"We'll look into it. I'll hire the best people. We'll sort it out." He squeezed my hands. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

A mix-up. He said it so easily.

Later, I drove. I didn't know where I was going.

The DNA report was on the passenger seat.

My hands clenched the steering wheel.

Numbness. Then a wave of pain so strong I gasped.

A car horn blared. I had drifted into the other lane.

I swerved back, heart hammering.

I pulled over, shaking.

Ethan's explanation felt too smooth. Too practiced.

The way he said "mix-up at the hospital."

A seed of deep suspicion took root.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Ethan slept soundly beside me.

I thought about his home office. He took important calls there.

The next morning, after he left for a golf game, I bought a small recording device.

I hid it under his large oak desk.

I felt sick doing it. Like a spy in my own home.

But I had to know.

I checked it that evening, after Lily was asleep.

Ethan's voice. Clear. Talking to his executive assistant, Mark.

"...make sure the guesthouse is perfect for Veronica's arrival. She'll be here from Geneva by Tuesday."

Veronica.

My blood ran cold.

Then Ethan's voice dropped. "And Mark, Clara must never find out about the long-term contraceptives Dr. Albright put her on after Noah. Or what really happened to Noah."

Noah. My son. Our first child.

The doctors told me he was stillborn. A tragic, unavoidable loss.

Contraceptives? Long-term?

My head spun. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

My heart was being squeezed.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent.

I sank to the floor in his office, the recording playing softly, over and over.

Betrayal. So deep. So calculated.

Ethan came in later. Found me on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV.

"Clara? You okay? You look pale."

He touched my forehead. His hand was warm. His voice full of concern.

The same voice that calmly discussed destroying my life.

Disgust rose in my throat.

I forced a weak smile. "Just tired. Long day."

He kissed my temple. "Get some rest. I have to go out for a bit. Just some final checks on the guesthouse. We have an old family friend arriving soon."

He went to the bedroom. I heard him whistling as he changed his shirt.

He came out, smelling of expensive cologne, a lightness in his step.

"Don't wait up." He smiled.

He was eager to leave. Eager to go to her. Veronica.

After he left, I went to my laptop.

"Veronica Bell. Geneva."

Her profile appeared. A biotech researcher.

Photos of a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes. And white roses.

So many photos with white roses. Bouquets. Gardens.

Then I found an old post from a mutual acquaintance, years ago, a blurry photo of Ethan and Veronica, younger.

The caption: "To Ethan and his brilliant Veronica. May your path always be lined with white roses."

Our garden. Ethan had filled it with white roses.

"They symbolize our pure love, Clara," he'd said.

Lies. All lies.

The roses weren't for me. They were for her.

A cold rage filled me.

I grabbed my phone. Found the number for a 24-hour landscaping service.

"Yes, I need a crew. Tonight. Emergency job."

"I want every single white rose bush ripped out of my garden. Now."

My voice was steady. Hard.

The noise of the crew working outside was a strange comfort.

The tearing of roots. The thud of discarded plants.

I sat at the kitchen table, the DNA report, the recorder, my laptop open to Veronica's smiling face.

I needed help.

I called Sarah Chen. My best friend from college. Now a lawyer.

"Sarah? It's Clara. I'm in trouble. Big trouble."

I told her everything. The blood type. The DNA. The recording. Noah. Veronica.

She listened patiently. Her voice was calm, practical.

"Clara, you need to be smart. Gather all the evidence you can. Document everything. Dates, times, conversations."

"And Clara... be careful. Ethan sounds dangerous."

I hung up, feeling a tiny spark of strength.

Sarah was right. I needed to be smart.

My mind drifted to Liam Miller.

Sarah had mentioned him a few months ago. An old college acquaintance of hers.

He owned a craft brewery in Oregon now.

I remembered him vaguely. Quiet. Kind eyes.

A fleeting image of a different life. A life without lies.

It was a foolish thought.

But it was there. A small seed of escape.

The sound of the last rose bush being ripped from the earth came from outside.

Good. Let the thorns be gone.