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Chapter 680:
“They’re going to arrest my parents,” she said. “Today. The FBI. Federal charges, twenty years minimum.” She forced herself to hold Eleanor’s gaze. “I know you hate me. I know you believe I’m a liar and a fraud and—” Her voice cracked, genuine, unplanned. “And you’re not wrong. I’ve done terrible things. I’ve lied and manipulated and p>
“Spare me your confession.” Eleanor’s voice was ice. “I’ve heard confessions from better women than you, Alycia. I’ve heard them from my own family. What I haven’t heard—what I will never hear from you—is truth p>
Alycia felt her cheeks burn. She reached into her bag, her fingers finding the folder she had prepared, the documents that were her last weapon, her final play.
“I have truth,” she said. “Medical records. From NewYork-Presbyterian. I was pregnant, Mrs. Compton. I was pregnant with Cole’s child, and I lost it. I lost everything.” She pulled the folder free and held it out with a hand that trembled. “Placental abruption. Fetal demise. Emergency hysterectomy. I can never have children now. Never. Because of p>
𝖱𝖾𝘢𝘥 𝗼𝗇 a𝘯у 𝗱𝖾𝗏і𝘤e о𝘯
“Because of your own father’s violence.” Eleanor’s voice did not rise, but it cut through Alycia’s performance like a blade. “Because Richard Beasley, in a drunken rage, threw a glass at his daughter’s abdomen. You seem surprised. Did you think the staff at NewYork-Presbyterian wouldn’t note the nature of your injuries when you were admitted? Your story didn’t match the wound, and worried whispers travel fast when a powerful family is involved p>
Alycia’s hand froze. The folder hung in the air between them, suddenly heavy, suddenly meaningless.
“You didn’t know we knew.” Eleanor smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression Alycia had ever seen on a human face. “You thought you could use your real injury to lend credibility to your lies. You thought you could play the victim one more time, manipulate my grandson one more time, destroy one more life in your relentless climb toward a status you will never, ever achieve p>
She reached beneath her shawl, withdrew a slim envelope, and tossed it onto the table between them.
“DNA test,” she said. “Chorionic villus sampling. Performed by your own physician, Dr. Hendricks, at your own request. After you dared to use June Erickson’s medical history against me, I commissioned a full-spectrum forensic audit on your entire life, Alycia. Your doctor was the weakest link. The sample you provided—the sample you claimed was from the fetus you were carrying—” Eleanor leaned forward, her eyes burning with cold fire. “It did not match Cole’s DNA. It did not match any DNA in our database. It was, in fact, a sample from an unrelated female, stolen from the clinic’s archives. A clumsy, desperate fraud. Your Dr. Hendricks was not as careful as she thought. She left a clear digital trail when she accessed the records p>
Alycia felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands went numb. The folder slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, scattering papers that suddenly looked like exactly what they were: forgeries, fantasies, the desperate inventions of a woman who had gambled everything on a bluff and been called.