Chapter 7 - The Photograph
I froze.
The photograph in Richard’s trembling hand was tiny, no bigger than a postage stamp. It was an old Polaroid of my mother from when she was in her early twenties, standing next to a man whose face had been torn off.
“It’s my mother,” I said, reaching out to take it back. “Please.”
Richard didn't hand it back. His eyes were locked on the image, his breathing shallow.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
My heart skipped a beat.
“How do you know my mother’s name?”
Richard looked up at me. The formidable billionaire, who had just coldly sent his wife to jail, looked entirely shattered.
“She’s wearing the emerald pendant,” he said, his voice barely audible. “The one I bought her in 1999.”
The entire ballroom, which had just started to settle down, fell deathly quiet once again.
Luca stepped closer, his protective instinct clearly kicking in.
“Richard. What are you talking about?” Luca asked.
Richard slowly turned the photograph around.
On the back, written in faded blue ink, were three letters.
R.W. + S.M.
Richard Whitcomb and Sarah Miller.
“My mother’s maiden name was Miller,” I said, my voice trembling.
I looked at the torn edge of the photo. I had never known who the man in the picture was. Mom always said he was someone from her past who wasn’t worth remembering.
“She was a housekeeper,” Richard said, staring at me. “At the Whitcomb estate. Before Lorraine and I were married.”
He swallowed hard.
“We fell in love. But my family... they threatened to ruin her if I didn't marry Lorraine. Lorraine’s family had the money we needed to save the company.”
Caroline stepped forward, looking between her father and me.
“Dad? Are you saying...?”
Richard looked at me, tears streaming down his face.
“When were you born, Rachel?”
“October 2000,” I whispered.
Richard closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“She told me she lost the baby,” he choked out. “Lorraine told me Sarah had a miscarriage and ran away.”
The room spun.
I grabbed the back of the nearest chair to steady myself.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, my dad died before I was born. Mom said he was a good man who got sick.”
“She was protecting you,” Richard said, stepping toward me. “Protecting you from my family. From Lorraine.”
He looked at my face, tracing my features with his eyes.
“You have her eyes. Sarah’s eyes.”
I couldn't breathe.
The man who had just stood by while his wife tortured my friend's mother... the billionaire whose family treated people like dirt... was my father?
“Don't,” I said, backing away.
“Rachel, please,” Richard begged, reaching a hand out.
“Don't touch me!” I shouted, louder than I intended.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I looked at Caroline. My half-sister. Standing there in her wedding dress, looking just as shell-shocked as I felt.
I looked at Patricia, who was watching me with deep, empathetic sorrow.
And then I looked at Luca.
“I need to go,” I whispered.
I turned and ran.
I ran down the center aisle, past the two hundred guests who were staring at me with a mix of shock and pity.
I pushed through the main ballroom doors and ran into the lobby.
I didn't stop to clock out. I didn't stop to change out of my uniform.
I ran out the front doors of the Bellmont Grand Hotel, out into the cold Chicago air, tears streaming down my face.
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands.
I had to call my mother. I had to know the truth.
But when I looked at my screen, I had three missed calls from the hospital.
And a voicemail from Dr. Evans.
May you like
I pressed play, my hands trembling violently.
“Rachel, it’s Dr. Evans. You need to come to the hospital immediately. Your mother’s heart is failing. We don’t have much time.”
