“We had dinner with him last month—my father even sent him a gift!”
“John Foster is famously single! Everyone knows that. Where would he get a wife? Or a kid?”
She pointed at Emma, who was nearly collapsing, her voice venomous.
“No wonder your little brat has a heart condition! You’re just some crazy woman who had a kid with God knows who and now you’re trying to pass him off as John Foster’s son!”
“Pathetic!”
“Shut your mouth!” I roared, but she ignored me.
She tightened her grip on my jaw and made a call.
“If you want to see John Foster so badly, I’ll make that happen.”
Ten minutes later, a familiar figure arrived.
It was Mark Thompson, my husband’s driver.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, two security men flanking him.
He carried himself like a man in power, mimicking John’s confident posture—though the greed and smugness in his eyes gave him away.
I had never seen those security men before.
