Her lips trembled. “Dad…?”

The boutique went dead quiet.

The rich woman took a step back. “Dad?” she repeated, almost choking on the word.

The older man’s eyes burned with anger.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “The daughter I lost twenty-three years ago.”

The pregnant woman began sobbing harder, unable to stand. A shop assistant rushed to support her.

The rich woman looked from him to the pregnant woman, panic spreading across her face.

“No… no, that’s impossible…”

But the old man reached into his coat, pulled out a faded photograph, and held it up.

It was a picture of a little girl wearing the exact same tiny birthmark on her wrist.

The same one the pregnant woman had.

“I searched for her for half my life,” he said. “And you just humiliated her in front of strangers.”

The rich woman’s hand shook so badly the diamond ring slipped from her fingers.

And then the pregnant woman looked straight at her and whispered through tears:

“You’re my father’s wife… aren’t you?”