The moment Frederick saw her, he scrambled toward her like she was his salvation—sobbing, thrusting his burned hand in her face.
Rosemary's expression softened with exaggerated concern. She cooed at him, stroking his hair.
"Poor thing. I'll take you to the best dermatologist in the city. Not a single scar, I promise."
She pinched his cheek playfully. "Our little Frederick still has to be the most handsome groomsman at Daddy's wedding, doesn't he?"
I stared at her, disbelief curdling into something darker. My voice came out raw.
"Rosemary. Do you have any idea what you're saying?"
She lifted her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curved in something that might have been a smile, but her eyes were arctic.
"I heard everything. Men from wealthy families—who doesn't have a woman or two on the side? Your mother died because she couldn't handle it. You're really going to blame Frederick for that?"
She stepped closer, her voice turning sharp. "You got to grow up with a father by your side. Why shouldn't he have the same?"
"No matter what it takes, I'm bringing him into the Sullivan family. Everyone will know he's the legitimate young master of this house—and no one will ever call him a bastard again."