Ethan studied the photo before meeting my eyes. “Her name is Camille.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“She’s my sister.”
For a moment, I thought I’d heard him
wrong. “You don’t have a sister.”
“I didn’t know I had one until six months ago.”
Silence settled between us. I looked back at the photos. The woman shared Ethan’s dark hair. The same sharp jawline. The same crease between her brows when she frowned. I hadn’t noticed any of it before.
“So that’s what she told everyone.”
“Are you saying your mother had another child?”
“No.” Ethan sat down. “My father did.”
Charles had died three years before Ethan and I married. I’d only met him twice. He had been courteous in the way wealthy people often are when they want you to understand that courtesy is not acceptance. During our first dinner, he asked what my father did.
