Chapter 3: Zero Percent
“Probability of Paternity: 0.00%.””
Those seven words were printed on the document my mother-in-law slammed onto my husband’s casket.
I stared at them, unable to reconcile the accusation with the life David and I had shared.
My name is Sarah Whitmore.
I was eight months pregnant when I lost my husband, David, in a car accident on Pacific Coast Highway.
Four days after the police delivered the news to our estate, I stood at his funeral in my Army dress uniform, hoping to give him one final goodbye.
Instead, Eleanor Whitmore decided to turn his burial into a trial.
“Leave my son’s house tonight,” she ordered.
“The baby isn’t his, and you have no claim to our family’s wealth.””
The mourners began looking at me differently.
Their sympathy became suspicion.
Their condolences became whispers.
David’s sister, Chloe, grabbed my left hand and forcibly removed my wedding ring.
I stumbled against the casket, my other arm instinctively shielding my baby.
Nobody stopped her.
Nobody asked Eleanor how she had obtained the supposed DNA results or why she had chosen to reveal them at her own son’s funeral.
I wanted to defend myself.
But grief had already stolen most of my strength, and I would not risk my child just to satisfy a room full of strangers.
Then Eleanor called me an incubator and ordered the attendants to throw me out.
I raised my eyes to meet hers.
She believed she had stripped me of my husband, my home, and my place in the Whitmore family.
She had no idea that David’s final warning had never left my mind.
“I’ve secured the fortress, Sarah. Whatever happens... trust Sterling.””
Before I could understand what those words meant, the cathedral doors burst open.
The person entering carried the kind of authority that made conversations die instantly.
May you like
And Eleanor, who had seemed untouchable moments earlier, suddenly stopped smiling.
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