At the base of her neck: a V-shaped birthmark.
The world stopped.
Arthur had the same one. So did his father. His grandfather. A rare family mark.
His hands trembled.
“Roberto,” he said softly—deadly soft. “Come here. Look.”
Roberto did—and went pale.
“No…”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “The Albuquerque mark.”
Amanda clutched her daughter.
“What does that mean?”
Arthur looked at her—not as a boss, but as a wounded man.
“It means she’s family. It means Roberto lied.”
Excuses came too late. The truth breathed quietly in Amanda’s arms.
“You knew,” Arthur said to his brother. It wasn’t a question.
Roberto tried to justify himself. Arthur cut him off.
“You denied your daughter. Let her go hungry while you wasted money. You called her ‘that thing.’ And now you want to be a father?”
He called Legal. Security. The room became an improvised courtroom.
“Tomorrow we begin legal recognition—and termination of parental rights for abandonment,” Arthur ordered.
“You can’t take my daughter!” Roberto yelled.
Arthur stood, his voice cracking just slightly.
“I spent five years praying my daughter would come back. And you had a living daughter… and threw her away.”
Roberto was escorted out, screaming fading behind closed doors.