Star's heart slammed against her ribs. She didn't believe in the supernatural. She didn't believe in magical mantles that chose people or a single touch healing some old man's chronic cough. This family was unspooling in front of her, secret after secret tangling together until she couldn't breathe.
"I need to leave," she said, already halfway to the stairs.
"Star." Saint Stark's voice stopped her cold. He had seated himself now, his cane resting across his knees, but his presence filled the room like a held breath. "The mantle has chosen you. Twice. Once when you were ill, and now again when you are not. We will get to the bottom of that today." His pale eyes shifted to Bonita. "But first, in what world—what scam—did Bonita end up with a fake mantle?"
Star's shoulders sagged. She crawled back toward the group, her escape route closed. Then an idea sparked. A beautiful, desperate idea.
"I'm pregnant," she announced, the words tumbling out too fast. "And I'm late for my first ANC appointment. Today. Right now."
Adrian's brow furrowed. He was still standing near Maria, a careful distance from the wreckage Christine's words had left behind. "You are?"
"Yes." Star nodded vigorously, panic edging her voice. "I decided it's today."
She might have a dark side. She might have done things that kept her awake at night. But that darkness was human—it was not mystic. She had touched an old man's arm, nothing more. She had not healed anything.
"Grandma." Bonita's voice cut through, quiet but trembling. "Why would you say I'm not my father's daughter?"
The question hung in the air, raw and unshielded. Christine opened her mouth to answer—
"Is this how we're going to work together? You late?"
Every head turned. Lucian stood in the doorway of the dining room, immaculate in a professional suit, his expression carved from stone. He surveyed the scene with undisguised displeasure, as if he'd walked into a boardroom where the numbers didn't add up.
Star lit up. Yes, she was furious with him. Yes, he had lied to her, and the sting was still fresh. But right now, in this house of unraveling secrets, Lucian was solid ground.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. He glanced at his watch—half past nine. He was the CEO and they hadn't signed the partnership yet. Lucian Throne had no business standing in his dining room unannounced.
"What are you doing here?" Adrian asked, suspicion sharpening every syllable.
"He's going with me." Star was already moving, crossing the room in quick, deliberate strides. Before Adrian could object, before anyone could form a single question, she seized Lucian's arm and dragged him out of the mansion. Lucian was confused by Star's action but he just let her drag him out without a question.
The door closed behind them. Inside, Bonita wasn't letting go.
"Mom?" Her voice cracked. She was still staring at Maria, searching for something—denial, anger, guilt, anything.
Saint Stark's cane tapped once against the floor. "How did Bonita get a fake mantle?"
Adrian turned back to face his family. Star was gone. She had fled from them, and honestly, he couldn't blame her. He was tired. Tired of the whispers and the meaningful glances, tired of his grandmother's vendetta against the one parent who had stayed.
He drew a breath and spoke, his voice flat and final.
"I don't think Mom has an answer about the mantle being fake." He looked at Christine, and something hard settled in his jaw. "Secondly, Grandma—Mom does have cancer. I order her medications. I observe her treatment. I watch her take them." His voice rose slightly, a dam cracking. "I don't know why you hate her. I don't know why you refuse to see her as family. But she's the one who stayed. My father isn't here. She is."
The room was silent. Adrian pushed on.
"I don't know what's going on in this house. You're all trying to make it into some mysterious family with important folklore, and it's not true. I'm sorry, Grandpa—but we just scared Star away." He turned to Bonita, and his voice softened, just slightly. "And Bonita, you are my father's daughter. I personally ran the DNA samples at MediPrivate. Their systems are in no way connected to ours. They don't use our procedures. It would be nearly impossible to forge. The results came back exactly as they were announced: Star is not related to us. Bonita is."
He stepped toward the elevator, pausing just long enough to deliver the final blow.
"Now, I'm going to take my fiancée to her ANC appointment. If you'll excuse me."
The elevator doors closed, and he was gone.
The silence he left behind was thick enough to choke on.
Maria allowed herself a small, mocking smile—there and gone the instant she realized Saint Stark was watching her. His expression was not kind. It was the expression of a man who had built empires, who had buried children, who had learned to see through the prettiest lies.
"If what Adrian said is true," Saint Stark said, each word measured and cold as winter stone, "we will end this discussion right here. You only need to answer one question."
He leaned forward slightly, and Maria felt the full weight of his attention press down on her chest.
"Where is the mantle that I crowned Bonita with?"
Maria's mouth opened. Her voice came out hoarse, scraped raw. "I have no idea, Sir."
A strange sensation prickled at the back of her throat. She didn't feel well. She didn't feel well at all.
Christine rose from her chair, composed and lethal. "Saint, we need to call a family meeting. You may fool Adrian, Maria, but you do not fool me."
"And me," Bonita added, shoving her untouched breakfast away. Fury and confusion tangled on her face. She knew her mother. She knew what Maria was capable of.
"I don't care who—"
Maria stopped. Her throat seized.
A violent cough wracked her body, doubling her forward. And then—blood. Dark and sudden, spilling from her lips, splattering across the pristine floor.
"Mom!" Bonita screamed, lunging forward.
Christine froze, her sharp composure cracking for the first time.
Maria's body crumpled. The pain was immense—ripping, tearing, nothing like she had ever felt—and she screamed, a raw, animal sound that tore through the manor. She was not sick. She did not have cancer. She knew this. She had orchestrated this lie herself.
So why was blood pouring from her mouth? And pain?
"Call Dr. Mathews!" Bonita shrieked.
Paul appeared at a run and gathered Maria into his arms, carrying her toward the elevator to the ninth floor. She was already unconscious. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, staining his shirt, leaving a dark trail on the marble floor.
Christine stood rooted to the spot, her face unreadable, the mocking smile long dead on her lips.
Was Maria truly dying? Had the lie somehow become the truth?