She had his bright hazel eyes and an infectious laugh that used to light up our home.
Even over the past six months, as Alexander’s late nights grew longer and his emotional absence turned into complete ice, those little girls still waited by the living room window on rainy evenings, holding out hope that their father might come home early.
They still carefully saved their school art drawings for him.
They still loved him fiercely and unconditionally.
They had no idea that somewhere along the way, their own father had begun viewing them as genetic disappointments—children who had failed to provide the prestigious Whitmore family with what it valued above everything else.
A boy.
A male heir to inherit the vast real estate empire and carry on the family name.
His twenty-six-year-old girlfriend, Brianna Hayes, had apparently given him what I could not.
And Alexander’s entire family was celebrating.
