The paternity report trembled in my hand.
Not because the paper was thin—
but because my world was collapsing.
Even the quiet clatter from the kitchen felt like a knife scraping my nerves.
I pushed open the door.
Ava stood by the stove, the soft glow of the kitchen haloing her like some gentle goddess, stirring beef stew with a peaceful smile.
A smile I used to think belonged to me.
"Ethan? You're home early?"
Her voice was warm. Sweet. Familiar.
Too familiar.
I slapped the paternity report onto the table.
The sound was sharp.
Final.
Like a guillotine dropping.
"Ava," I said, my voice breaking, "I'm not an orphan."
She blinked, confused.
I forced the words out, each syllable like a shard of glass cutting through my throat.
"Robert Clark… the billionaire you see on TV… is my father."
For one precious second, I searched her eyes for happiness.
For pride.
For excitement.
For anything that meant she still cared about me.
But what I saw—
was not joy.
It was calculation.
It was greed.
It was… hunger.
Her spoon froze mid-air.
Half a heartbeat.
Then she placed it down and walked over slowly.
Too slowly.
"Ethan… don't panic."
Her fingers brushed my brow like she used to when I cried over failures.
But the warmth was gone.
Completely gone.
She said, "You're still my husband."
But her eyes were glued to one phrase on that report:
CLARK GROUP
And just like that—
I understood.
She wasn't comforting me.
She was recalculating her life.