“You kept my grandchildren from me.

For eleven years.

You let me believe it was her, and the whole time it was you.”

Grayson’s father was on his feet now, at the head of the table, his face gone dark.

“Grayson.

Tell me this is not true.”

And Grayson — my charming, unflappable husband, the man who had managed two entire families’ worth of people for over a decade — looked around the room and found that the polished mask had finally, completely come off, and underneath it there was nothing but a small, cornered man.

“I just wanted our family time to be special,” he stammered, sweat shining on his forehead.