Seven Years of Lies

Part 2: The Truth Behind the Four Girls

I didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did Isla.

My SoHo apartment had six bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen, and more luxury than four little girls had probably seen in their entire lives. Yet when I returned from the kitchen with four glasses of warm milk, I found them huddled together on one sofa, refusing to separate.

Willa was holding Penny’s hand.

Tessa was resting her head against Josie’s shoulder.

They looked so small.

“Girls,” I said gently, “there are four bedrooms upstairs. You can each have your own.”

Willa shook her head.

“We sleep together.”

“Why?”

She looked toward Isla.

“Because Mommy says we should always stay where we can see each other.”

Something about that answer troubled me.

I turned toward Isla.

She was standing near the window, staring at the city lights.

“Can we talk?”

She nodded.

I led her into my study and closed the door.

“Are they mine?”

Isla looked down.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she whispered, “Yes.”

My knees nearly gave way.

“All four?”

She nodded.

“Four daughters, Graham. Four beautiful little girls you never knew existed.”

I sat down heavily.

Seven years.

Seven birthdays.

Seven Christmas mornings.

First words, first steps, first days of school.

I had missed everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried!”

Her voice suddenly broke.

“I called you hundreds of times. I sent letters to your office. I even waited outside your apartment for three days.”

“Nobody told me.”

“Your mother did.”

I looked up.

“What?”

Isla wiped her tears.

“Seven years ago, after I refused her money, she told me you had been in an accident.”

My blood ran cold.

“An accident?”

“She said you were unconscious in a private hospital and that your family didn’t want me near you. She showed me a photograph of you in a hospital bed.”

I stood up.

“That never happened.”

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“I know that now.”

She took a shaky breath.

“Two weeks later, your mother visited me again. She said you had recovered and were preparing to marry someone else. She gave me a letter supposedly written by you.”

“What did it say?”

Isla looked directly into my eyes.

‘Forget me. I never loved you.’

I felt as though someone had driven a knife through my chest.

“I never wrote that.”

“I know.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small, worn envelope.

“I kept it.”

Inside was a letter bearing my name and a signature that looked almost identical to mine.

But it wasn’t mine.

My mother had forged it.

I stared at the paper, barely able to breathe.

Then Isla spoke again.

“There’s something else. Your mother knew I was pregnant before I did. She found out when I was nearly three months along.”

“How?”

“She had someone following me.”

I clenched my jaw.

“She told me that if I ever contacted you, she would make sure I lost my children.”

I looked toward the living room, where four little girls were quietly sharing a blanket.

“She threatened my daughters?”

“She said your family had enough money and influence to make four children disappear from my life.”

My hands trembled.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“I was twenty-four, pregnant, frightened, and completely alone. I had no money to fight your family. I thought keeping my daughters safe was more important than proving the truth.”

I couldn’t blame her.

But I couldn’t forgive myself either.

Before I could speak, my phone rang.

My mother.

This time, I answered.

“Where are you?” Eleanor Whitmore demanded.

“At my apartment.”

“Come home immediately. And send that woman away.”

I laughed bitterly.

“That woman has a name. Her name is Isla. And she’s the mother of your four granddaughters.”

Silence.

Then my mother said something that made my stomach turn.

“Those children should never have been born.”

I closed my eyes.

“Repeat that.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Graham. You have an engagement announcement to prepare for. Margot’s family is furious.”

“I don’t care about Margot.”

“You will care when you learn what those children could cost you.”

I stared at the phone.

“What exactly are you hiding?”

My mother lowered her voice.

“Come home. Alone. We need to discuss your father’s inheritance.”

Then she hung up.

I looked at Isla.

She had heard everything.

Her face was pale.

“Graham,” she whispered, “your father knew.”

I froze.

“My father died six years ago.”

“I know. But before he died, he contacted me. He said he had discovered what your mother had done.”

My heart began pounding.

“What did he tell you?”

Isla reached into her bag again and pulled out a small silver key.

“He told me to keep this until you were ready to know the truth.”

She placed it in my palm.

Engraved on the key were two words.

PRIVATE VAULT.

And beneath them was my father’s initials