Eighteen years after my wife died, I realized my son was not my own.

After my wife died, our entire family spoiled our son rotten. We treated him like a prince.

My mom worked tirelessly for three years for the principal of the most elite high school, just so our son could get in.

My dad drove Leo to and from school every single day. One rainy morning, he slipped on the way out and shattered his spine.

On Leo’s 18th birthday, my sister, Skylar, painstakingly prepared a gift for him. But on her way there, she got into a car accident.

I answered the FaceTime call from Skylar. Her face was a bloody mess on the screen.

“Alex… I saw… I saw Seraphina…”

As her phone camera moved, Seraphina, who was supposed to be dead, appeared in the frame. She looked utterly impatient after hitting someone.

Next to her, a handsomely dressed man casually pulled out a wad of cash and flung it at my sister.

“Seraphina, this kind of person clearly just wants to scam us. It’s more important to get to Leo’s coming-of-age party.”

“If I miss Leo’s party, he’ll definitely blame me, his father.”

At that instant, a cold dread washed over me, chilling me to the bone.

Our son, whom our family had cherished for eighteen years, wasn’t even related to me by blood?!