Charles turned to him calmly. “And you are?”
“The ex-husband,” Nathan replied with a short laugh. “The mistake she’s still paying for.”
I stiffened.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.
He ignored me, eyes scanning the luxury around him before landing on the necklace.
“How much?” he asked.
Silence.
“Hundreds?” he guessed, greed sharpening his tone.
“Let’s talk outside,” he said, grabbing my arm.
A guard stepped between us.
“She’s my wife,” Nathan snapped.
“Ex-wife,” I corrected.
His smile faltered.
“Escort him out,” Charles instructed.
Before leaving, Nathan looked at me coldly. “We’ll talk later. What’s yours is still mine.”
He was wrong.
Two days later, the doctor opened the results.
“Genetic compatibility exceeds 99.9 percent.”
Charles exhaled shakily. “You’re my granddaughter.”
Everything rushed through me—relief, disbelief, grief.
And then I saw Nathan waiting outside the clinic.
Smiling.
That night, someone tried to force my apartment door. Nothing was taken. Just disturbed. A warning.
I filed charges—with Charles’s attorneys. Security footage showed Nathan tampering with the lock.
Within two weeks, a restraining order was issued. Two hundred meters. Final divorce papers signed.