Ten years after I adopted my late girlfriend’s daughter, everything I thought was solid in our little world cracked in an instant.
It was Thanksgiving morning, and the house smelled like roasting turkey and cinnamon — the kind of comforting warmth that always made the holidays feel less lonely for the two of us. I was mashing sweet potatoes, humming to myself, when Grace walked into the kitchen.
“Hey, sweetheart, can you grab the—”
I stopped mid-sentence.
She stood in the doorway like she’d seen something terrible. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were puffy and red, like she’d been crying for hours.
“Dad…” she whispered. “I need to tell you something. I’m not staying for Thanksgiving dinner.”
My heart dipped, then dropped straight to the floor. “What do you mean?”
She swallowed hard. “I’m… going to my real father. He promised me something.”
The words hit me so hard my vision blurred.
Her real father.
The man who disappeared before she was even born.
The same man who never paid a dime of child support.
The same man who left Laura terrified and alone.
But Grace wasn’t done.
“He found me on Instagram two weeks ago,” she said, voice barely holding together. “And… you know him.”
When she said his name, my blood went cold.
Chase.
The local baseball golden boy.
Famous, adored, and — if you knew the real stories — dangerous as hell.
And the worst part? He knew who she was. He knew she was mine.
Grace,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice steady, “why would you talk to him? That man hasn’t reached out to you in your entire life.”
“He said something important,” she murmured. “Something about you.”
My stomach twisted. “What did he say?”
Her voice cracked. “He said he could ruin you, Dad.”
I felt something break inside me.
