"My father is Pete—"
"Are you sure?" Richard interrupted, his voice steady, measured. "Did Monica ever tell you the truth? Or did she let you believe what was easiest?"
Cammy felt like the ground beneath her had been ripped away.
Richard leaned back, watching her reaction carefully. "I have no proof. Only the past. And a feeling that I've never been able to shake."
He sighed. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you. Maybe it was better left buried. But now that I see you, I couldn't keep it to myself any longer."
Cammy shot to her feet, her breath unsteady, her mind spinning. "I… I need air."
She didn't wait for his response. She turned and fled, needing distance, needing anything but the suffocating weight of what had just been said.
But before Cammy could escape, Richard's grip on her wrist was tight and firm yet measured—like a man holding onto something he wasn't ready to let go of.
