chapter 13: Family secrets .

Arielle had always believed her family was simple.

Hard-working. Honest. Uncomplicated.

But the thing about secrets—they didn't care about belief. They waited in silence, heavy and patient, until the moment they decided to surface.

And sometimes, they did so when life was just beginning to feel normal again.

She had just returned from a CleanStart planning session at Cross Enterprises. Damien had kissed her goodbye at the elevator like it was habit now. Comfortable. Familiar.

She should have felt at peace.

But when she walked into the apartment and saw her mother sitting on the couch with a sealed brown envelope on her lap, shoulders rigid and eyes unreadable, Arielle knew something was wrong.

"Mom?"

Her mother didn't speak at first.

Just looked up with tired eyes. Older than usual. Like something inside her had frayed overnight.

"I didn't want you to find out this way," she said finally, voice low. "But I can't keep hiding it anymore. Not now."

Arielle blinked. "Hiding what?"

Her mom held the envelope out.

With a shaky hand, Arielle took it.

Inside: a birth certificate.

Her own.

But the father's name wasn't blank anymore.

Marcus Grant.

Arielle's blood ran cold. "Wait… this isn't a mistake?"

Her mother slowly shook her head. "No, baby. It's the truth."

Arielle's hands tightened around the paper. "I thought you said Dad died when I was two. That he worked in construction. That we couldn't afford to keep his records."

Her mother swallowed hard. "That was... easier to say than the truth. I didn't want you to carry his name. Or his shame."

Arielle sat down, her knees suddenly too weak to hold her.

"Who is he?" she asked, dreading the answer.

Her mother hesitated, then answered softly.

"A man who once had everything. Money. Influence. Connections. He came from one of the city's old-money families. But what he didn't have… was decency."

Arielle's heart sank. "You mean he—"

"No," her mother cut in quickly. "He didn't hurt me. It wasn't like that. I was young. Naive. I worked as a temp cleaner at his family's estate. We… we got close. Too close. And when I found out I was pregnant with you, he panicked."

Arielle stared. "He abandoned you?"

"He denied everything. Said I was trying to trap him. His family paid me to leave quietly. Signed papers. Covered everything. And I took it. Because I wanted to protect you. I didn't want them owning a piece of your life."

Arielle's chest ached. "Why are you telling me now?"

Her mother met her gaze, raw and unflinching. "Because Marcus Grant is back in the country. And last week... someone from his firm contacted me. He knows about you now."

---

Three days later, Damien drove Arielle to the Grant estate.

He didn't push her to talk.

Didn't offer advice.

He just held her hand during the entire ride, letting his silence speak loyalty.

The Grant mansion looked like it belonged in a film—gates too high, lawns too trimmed, windows too spotless. It reeked of legacy.

The butler opened the door without question.

"He's expecting you."

Arielle stepped inside, pulse roaring in her ears.

Marcus Grant was seated in a grand study, dressed in a navy suit that probably cost more than her rent for the year. His hair was graying at the temples, but his posture was perfect.

When he saw her, he stood.

"You have your mother's eyes," he said.

Arielle didn't sit.

"You have a lot of nerve."

He smiled faintly. "I deserve that."

She folded her arms. "Why now?"

"I didn't know," he said smoothly. "Not really. I suspected, once. But my parents—well, they made sure any rumors were buried. You must understand, it was a different time."

"Don't feed me excuses," Arielle snapped. "I'm not here for father-daughter bonding. I want to know what you want."

Marcus nodded. "Fair. I reached out because I'm dying."

The words landed like a slap.

He didn't flinch. "Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. I have months, maybe less."

Arielle's arms dropped. Her anger didn't vanish—but it tangled with something else now. Confusion. Pity. A strange, cold empathy.

"I didn't come here to burden you," he said. "But I didn't want to leave this world pretending I had no blood in it. You deserved to know. And… I wanted to meet you once."

She stared at him. "Is that it?"

A pause.

"No," Marcus admitted. "I've also made arrangements. A trust. In your name. Enough to pay for whatever future you want."

Arielle froze. "You think you can buy peace? Forgiveness?"

"No," he said quietly. "But I thought maybe… I could give you a weapon. Something to build with."

She laughed bitterly. "Money from a ghost. How poetic."

He looked pained. "I have no right to ask for anything. But if I leave you something—anything—it won't be to rewrite history. It'll be to give you power. Real power."

Arielle exhaled slowly. "I don't want your name."

"You don't need it," he said softly. "You've already built one for yourself."

She turned to go, but paused at the door.

"Why didn't you fight for me back then?"

His eyes filled with regret. "Because I was a coward."

There was no defense. No justification.

Just truth.

And sometimes, truth was the only apology worth hearing.

---

That night, Arielle curled up beside Damien on his sofa, head on his chest, blanket tangled around them.

She told him everything.

About Marcus.

About the money.

About the ache of knowing a father too late.

Damien listened, arms never letting go.

And when she finished, he kissed her forehead and said something she didn't expect:

"You don't have to accept anything. But if you do—it doesn't make you weak. It makes you strategic."

Arielle blinked. "You're okay with that?"

"I'm okay with whatever helps you rise," he said. "As long as it doesn't dim who you are."

She looked at him, heart full of new questions and old pain.

But also love.

Steady, unshakable love.

The kind that didn't flinch when shadows from the past knocked on the door.

Arielle didn't know if she'd ever see Marcus Grant again.

But she knew one thing for certain.

Family secrets didn't define her.

They were just pages in a book she was no longer afraid to read.