The envelope is waiting on your desk when you get home—cream-colored, thick paper, no return address. Your name is written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting. You don’t know why your pulse quickens as you open it.

The words hit you slowly, then all at once.

You are not who you think you are. The woman you call your mother is not your biological parent. You were taken as a baby.

Your breath catches. You reread the letter, hands trembling. Dates. A hospital. Details no stranger should know.

“No… that can’t be true,” you whisper to the empty room.

Then you hear it—the sharp click of heels in the hallway.

“Darling?” Mom's voice sings out, light and effortless. “Are you home?”

Panic surges through you. You fold the letter quickly and shove it under a pile of books just as the door opens.

Valentina stands there flawlessly put together, pink dress hugging her curves, dark glasses perched on her nose. “You’re very quiet today,” she says, tilting her head. “Everything okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She watches you for a moment, eyes sharp beneath the makeup, then smiles. “Dinner at eight,” she says. “And remember sweetie, presentation is everything.”