"It was never about your beauty or Mrs. Johnson's affection," Dylan said quietly. "It was always about who you really are."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. I leaned forward, heartbeat thundering in my ears.
"Mrs. Johnson is my real mother, isn't she?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dylan's expression shifted subtly—not quite confirming, not quite denying. Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, perhaps that I'd figured it out, or maybe that I hadn't quite hit the mark.
"I've seen how she looks at me," I continued, pushing harder. "That strange mix of affection and guilt. It's not just pity. It's maternal instinct."
Dylan's lips pressed into a thin line. He looked down at his cuffed hands.
"You should ask her yourself," he finally said.
Not a confirmation. Not a denial. Just another roadblock.
I straightened my spine. "I intend to. And I'll get a DNA test to prove it."
