Chapter 7 - The Confrontation
The next evening, the grand dining room of the Stanhope estate was suffused in a suffocating silence.
The chandelier cast shimmering light over the silver cutlery and untouched porcelain plates. Charles sat at the head of the table, his arm possessively resting on Phoebe’s chair. Phoebe wore a pristine emerald dress, maintaining a façade of serene confidence, though her eyes constantly flicked toward the grandfather clock in the corner.
At the other end of the table sat Cordelia. In front of her lay a thick, gold-embossed envelope sealed with the official wax of the hospital's genetics department.
"Can we open it and get this farce over with?" Charles demanded bitterly. "Phoebe hasn't eaten all day because of the stress you’ve put her through."
"I invited one more guest to witness this," Cordelia said smoothly, ignoring her son completely.
The double doors opened.
Richard Stanhope strolled into the dining room, exuding his usual charismatic, self-assured smirk. "Aunt Cordelia. Charles. Phoebe. What’s the urgent family summons? I was in the middle of reviewing the European hospitality bids."
"Take a seat, Richard," Cordelia said calmly.
Phoebe’s breath hitched, just for a microsecond, but Cordelia caught it.
Cordelia picked up a silver letter opener, sliced through the top of the envelope, and pulled out three separate sheets of paper. She adjusted her reading glasses and skimmed the text in complete silence.
Charles leaned forward, smug. "Well? Tell us, Mother. Confirm my daughters' heritage so you can apologize to my future wife."
Cordelia lowered the papers and looked up. There were no tears in her eyes—only a cold, devastating fury that felt ancient and absolute.
"The test confirms that the unborn twins are completely healthy," Cordelia announced.
Charles broke into a triumphant grin. "I told you! I told you, you paranoid old—"
"However," Cordelia’s voice rose, slicing through his triumph like a guillotine. "The probability of paternity for Charles Edward Stanhope is zero point zero percent."
Charles’s smile died instantly. His face contorted in horrific disbelief. "What? That’s... that’s impossible! Campbell falsified it! You bribed him!"
"Dr. Campbell tried to take a one-million-dollar bribe from your darling fiancée, Charles," Cordelia stated, tossing a photograph onto the table. It showed Phoebe handing the napkin to Campbell in the hotel lobby, followed by Campbell’s signed confession to private investigators. "Hannah’s security team intercepted him before he could tamper with the machinery."
Phoebe turned ghost-white. She shoved her chair back, trying to stand, but her knees buckled.
"Wait," Charles whispered, looking between Phoebe and his mother, his reality shattering piece by piece. "If... if I’m not the father... then who is?"
Cordelia turned her gaze slowly, deliberately, toward the other side of the table.
"The second sheet contains a familial match," Cordelia said, her voice dropping into a register of sheer poison. "The biological father of those children shares fifty percent of your genetic markers, Charles. The biological father is sitting right next to you."
Charles turned in slow motion.
Richard Stanhope didn't flinch. In fact, the polite smirk slowly vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating grin.
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"You always had everything, Charles," Richard said quietly, leaning back in his chair. "The company, the title, the penthouse. But you couldn't even give the family an heir. So Phoebe and I decided to solve that problem for you."
***
