Chapter 8 - A Grandmother's Verdict
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For ten agonizing seconds, nobody at the dining table breathed. Evelyn Vance stared at my three-year-old daughter as if her late husband had walked back through the pearly gates to sit at his old breakfast table.
"That's impossible," Camille hissed, slamming her linen napkin onto the table when she saw Evelyn’s wavering expression. "Evelyn, don't fall for this pathetic parlor trick! Anyone can buy colored contact lenses or coach a toddler to act cute! She’s a college dropout who was drowning in medical debt before she wormed her way into this house!"
Evelyn blinked rapidly, recovering her formidable composure as decades of high-society cynicism rushed back into her posture. She straightened her spine and looked across the table at me with cold suspicion.
"Camille has a valid point, Damon," Evelyn said, though her voice lacked its earlier certainty. "Our family has been targeted by extortionists since the day you were born. If this woman truly gave birth to a Vance heir three years ago, why did she hide in the servants' quarters instead of coming to our lawyers? I demand a clinical paternity test performed by Dr. Aris at Mount Sinai today."
"Dr. Aris already took the samples last night when he treated Sophie’s knee," Damon replied calmly, pouring maple syrup over Sophie’s pancakes as if they were discussing the morning weather. "The expedited results will be delivered here by five o’clock this evening. Not that I need a piece of paper to recognize my own blood."
"And when that paper proves she’s lying, I want her prosecuted for fraud!" Camille snapped viciously.
Sophie flinched at the loud, angry voice, her small lower lip trembling as she pushed her pancake plate away. Before I could comfort her, Sophie slid off her chair and walked quietly out of the dining room toward the open archway of the parlor across the hall.
"Sophie, sweetheart, come back," I called out, standing up immediately, followed by Damon, Evelyn, and Camille.
When we reached the parlor doorway, all four of us stopped dead in our tracks.
Sophie had climbed onto the leather bench in front of the Steinway grand piano—the exact place Camille had shoved her from yesterday. With tiny, hesitant fingers, she began pressing the keys one by one. She didn't know how to read sheet music, yet by pure ear, she began picking out a slow, hauntingly familiar lullaby in D minor.
Beside me, Evelyn let out a strangled sob, gripping the doorframe to stay upright.
"What is it?" Camille demanded irritably. "It’s just a nursery rhyme!"
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"No, it isn't," Damon said softly, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he watched our daughter. "My father composed that melody for my mother the night I was born. It was never published, and I played it on this piano only once last week when I thought the house was empty."
Sophie had heard him play it once from the kitchen hallway—and remembered every single note. Evelyn turned to look at me, the arrogance in her eyes shattering into stunned humility.
