Zero percent probability of paternity.

The boy Roderick had built his whole cruel arithmetic around — the male heir he had entered into the Pembroke Living Trust, the son he had chosen over his own daughter in a delivery room — was not his son.

Had never been his son.

He had thrown away his marriage, his daughter, and, though he did not yet know it, his freedom, to secure an heir who carried not one drop of his blood.

Chapter 13 — The Foyer