Then came gift time. Camille opened blankets, baby shoes, and silver spoons engraved with Baby Mercer while guests applauded every performance. Finally, she reached for my blue box tied with silver ribbon.

The room quieted instantly.

Inside sat a framed DNA report. Camille’s smile froze while Daniel grabbed the document from her hands. He read it once, then again, before whispering, “It says I’m not the father.” The silence that followed felt violent.

“That’s fake,” Camille snapped desperately. “No,” I answered calmly. “Just like the fertility records proving Daniel has been sterile since birth are very real.” Before Daniel could explode, my lawyer Evelyn entered beside two forensic accountants carrying thick folders of financial records-