The words hung in the air like smoke, settling over the table and changing everything. My declaration—that I was the illegitimate daughter of the Dubois family—had detonated like a bomb in the middle of our polite dinner.
"Illegitimate?" someone whispered.
I kept my chin up, refusing to crumble under the weight of my confession. For years, this simple fact had been my prison. The word had been used like a whip against my back by Genevieve—a constant reminder that I didn't belong, that I was less than, that I should be grateful for the scraps thrown my way.
Arthur's hand remained firmly around mine beneath the table. His thumb traced small circles on my skin, a silent show of support that steadied me more than I wanted to admit.
"Well," Victoria broke the silence with a cold laugh. "That certainly explains a lot."
