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“I don’t understand.” Paloma’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Why would Dad keep a portrait of you all these years. There are many photos as well. Why lie about who my mother is?”

“I have a few theories.” Mom purses her lips. “None of which my son would want me to discuss in front of you.”

Was I hoping this meet would go different? Absolutely. I hoped Mom and Paloma would meet and become fast friends. They have ballet in common. That should’ve been enough to spark a conversation between them. I sure as fuck was not expecting Paloma to think her mother had come back from the dead. And that we were now half-siblings.

But now that the shock of it is wearing off, I can see how this whole misunderstanding is just one more of the Senator’s tangled web of lies. But I can’t openly discuss any of it without telling Paloma the truth. She’s not ready. Until I come up with a good explanation as to why my mom and her mom look the same, I can’t tell her the truth.

“Paloma.” I turn to my wife. “I think your father has been lying to you about who your mother is.” I opt for the simplest truth. Even if it cuts her deep, learning her father is a liar is better than finding out he’s a cold-blooded killer.

“No.” She shakes her head, shuffling away from me. “He wouldn’t do that. Why would he? It makes no sense.” She points at Mom. “She doesn’t want to admit the truth.” Tears well up in her eyes as she glances at me. “And you.”

“Paloma, listen to me.” I reach for her hand, but she slaps it away.

“No.” She backs away until she’s at the bottom of the grand staircase. Her lip trembles, and for a moment, I can see her indecision. She fucking wants to run away again.

“Paloma.” I take a handful of long strides to plant myself between her and the front door.

If she needs time to think about what any of this means, fine. She can have all the time she needs. But she can’t leave me.

“This can’t be. It just can’t.” She wipes her cheeks as her gaze bounces between me and Mom. After several beats, she turns on her heels and runs back upstairs.

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair. “Mary Jane,” I call out.

When she doesn’t answer, I fish my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and dial the housekeeping number. Mary Jane answers on the first ring. “Mr. Archer?”

“Make sure Paloma doesn’t leave the house,” I say.

“Yes, Mr. Archer.” Her voice is tentative, but she doesn’t dare ask what’s going on.

“Thanks.” I hang up, then turn to my family. “Study. Now.”

I stride to my desk and fire up my computer to look at pictures I took of the stolen paintings I found at the Senator’s mansion the day I snuck into his suite. I counted three. Plus, there was a fourth one in the Senator’s study. I never saw one of Mom.

Mom, Gardenia, and Jacob walk in with Fisher bringing up the rear. When everyone is in, he shuts the door and turns to me, then Mom. The look on his face is of pure disgust. Or is that jealousy?

“And here you were worried about telling Freya you married your enemy’s daughter.” Jacob blows out a breath. “So fucked up.”

“Freya, just so we’re all on the same page here.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Is there a slight possibility Paloma is your daughter.”

“Jesus Christ, Fisher.” Mom raises her voice. “I think I would know if I had a child after Tristan.”

“Mom, don’t call me that. It’s Archer here,” I interrupt.

“Archer?” She slow-blinks, shaking her head. “Did you really go on and marry that man’s daughter? Why in the world would you do that?”

“It’s complicated.” I brace both hands on the desk. “I thought I wanted revenge. But now, all I want is to keep her safe.”

“Why is the Senator telling people Freya is the mother of one of his children though?” Jacob plops himself on the sofa. “What’s the end game there?”

“The end game is he’s a psychopath.” Mom lowers herself on the sofa across from Jacob and drops her head in her hand. “I told you to stay away from that man. All he knows is his own greed. He’s dangerous.”

“I can handle him.” I sit next to her. “It’s almost over. He’s on the brink of ruin. There’s only one job left.”

“What is that?” She looks at me with wet eyes.

“He has the family paintings.” I shoot a glance toward the upstairs. “He’s been telling people my grandparents are his parents. That they built the mansion he lives in. And now, as you know, he’s been telling his own daughter that you are her mom. Do you see what he’s been doing? He’s an orphan. He has no family. So he invented one.”

“He didn’t invent one.” Gardenia props herself on the sofa arm. “He stole your dad’s life. He took all the stories and made them his own. We all heard him that day, didn’t we? At Chuck’s birthday party?”