One Week Later...
A week after my night with Valentina—seven days of stolen glances in hallways, sex in the infirmary, and text messages that vanished faster than a Kardashian marriage—Edward Sterling decided to crash into our lives like a B-movie villain with a trust fund.
Edward Sterling. Biological father of my twin sisters. Walking lawsuit in loafers. The human embodiment of "do you know who my father is?" energy.
It was my first time seeing the bastard in person.
Sure, I'd Googled him before—late-night masochism sessions where I stared at the smug face of the man who'd tried to ship me to child services but couldn't be bothered to send Mom a check.
The kind of guy whose LinkedIn profile probably reads like a parody of late-stage capitalism.
I was in my room when the shouting started—Mom's voice, taut and professional, the same one she probably used to talk down schizophrenics in the ER. Then a man's voice, smooth with entitlement, like melted caviar.
