The sound of someone banging their fist against the front door echoed through the house.
Grace froze solid. “Dad… that’s him.”
“Dad… that’s him.”
I walked to the door and opened it.
There he was: Chase, the biological father. Everything about him was a performance: designer leather jacket, perfect hair, and, I kid you not, sunglasses at night.
“Move,” he commanded, stepping toward me like he owned the place.
I didn’t budge. “You’re not coming inside.”
“You’re not coming inside.”
He smirked. “Oh, still playing daddy, huh? That’s cute.”
Grace whimpered behind my back.
He spotted her, and his smile widened into a predatory grin.
“You. Let’s go.” He pointed at Grace. “We have photographers waiting. Interviews. I’m due for a comeback, and you’re my redemption arc.”
And that’s when things started to get ugly.
His smile widened into a predatory grin.
“She’s not your marketing tool,” I snapped. “She’s a child.”
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