Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 176

Elena: POV

I stared at the phone screen until my eyes burned, reading and rereading the same obituary.

*Josephine Vance, 62, passed away from complications related to pancreatic cancer just weeks after her foster daughter, Elena Vance, was reported missing following a suspected suicide attempt. Authorities recovered Ms. Vance's belongings near the Brooklyn Bridge, but her body was never found.*

I stopped reading. I couldn't breathe.

*Suicide attempt. Body never found.*

The words blurred together as tears fell onto the screen. Josephine was dead. The woman who'd taken me in when no one else would, who'd taught me to bake chocolate chip cookies and helped me with my homework—she was gone. And she'd died thinking I was dead too.

All this time, while I'd been living this perfect life with Alexander, playing house and pretending to be someone I wasn't, Josephine had been dying. Alone. Grieving for a daughter who wasn't even really dead.

"Miss? We're here."

The cabbie's voice jolted me back. I blinked, realizing we'd stopped in front of Alexander's Mayfair townhouse. The Georgian facade looked imposing in the dim streetlight, all those perfect windows staring down at me like accusing eyes.

I paid quickly with shaking hands and stumbled out, my legs barely holding me up. The evening air was crisp, cutting through the fog in my head just enough for me to function.

The house was dark except for a single light in the kitchen. I let myself in quietly, half-hoping Alexander would be asleep so I could postpone this confrontation until morning. But as I stepped into the foyer, I heard footsteps on the marble floor.

And then he was there, standing in the kitchen doorway with a glass of whiskey in his hand, still wearing his work clothes but with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. He looked tired, older somehow than he had this morning.

"Elena," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I was starting to worry."

I stared at him, this man who'd claimed to love me, who'd built a life with me, who'd given me a daughter. His dark hair was slightly mussed, probably from running his hands through it—something he did when he was stressed.

And all I could think was: *How much of it was a lie?*

"Alexander," I said slowly, my voice trembling. "I need you to tell me the truth."

His expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Wariness. Maybe even fear. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly on the whiskey glass.

"About what?" he asked, though we both knew he already knew.

I took a step closer, my hands clenched into fists. "About Josephine. About how I ended up in that river. About—" My voice cracked. "About whether Lila is really yours."

For a long moment, he didn't say anything. He just stood there, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. His jaw was tight, and I could see the muscle working as he ground his teeth.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere in the house, I could hear the grandfather clock in the living room ticking, marking the seconds of my life that had been built on lies.

And then, finally, he set the glass down on the marble countertop with a soft clink and met my eyes.

"I saved you," he said quietly. "That's the truth, Elena. I pulled you out of that river when no one else would. I gave you a life when you had nothing left. And yes, I—" He hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I may have... edited certain details. But I did it to protect you. To give you a fresh start."

"Edited," I repeated, my voice hollow. The word tasted bitter in my mouth. "You *edited* my entire fucking life, Alexander."

"I gave you a *better* life," he shot back, his calm facade cracking for the first time. His voice rose slightly, and I saw his hands clench at his sides. "Do you have any idea what you were before I found you? Broken. Suicidal. Pregnant with another man's child and convinced you had nothing left to live for. I gave you *hope*, Elena. I gave you Lila. I gave you me."

The words hit me like physical blows. *Pregnant with another man's child.* So he'd known all along. He'd known Lila wasn't his, and he'd let me believe otherwise for three years.

"Lila isn't yours," I whispered, the words barely audible.

His face went pale, the color draining from his cheeks. "What?"

I pulled the crumpled DNA report from my pocket—the one Julian had shoved into my hand before I'd fled the café. The paper was wrinkled and slightly torn from where I'd gripped it too tightly, but the results were still clearly visible.

"Julian did a paternity test. Lila is his daughter. Not yours."

Alexander's expression didn't change. Instead, he calmly reached into his jacket and pulled out his own folded document. His movements were precise, controlled, like he'd been expecting this moment.

"I know," he said quietly. "Because I had one done too."

My heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt sideways, and I had to grip the doorframe to keep from falling.

"What?"

He handed me the paper with steady hands. "The day after Julian contacted you, I suspected he might try something like this. So I had our own test conducted."

I unfolded his report with trembling fingers. Official letterhead from a different lab, technical jargon that made my head spin, and at the bottom: *Probability of paternity: 99.97%.*

"I don't understand," I whispered, staring at the conflicting documents. My vision was blurring again, and I had to blink several times to focus on the words.

"One of these reports is fake," Alexander said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. "The question is—which one?"

I looked between the two papers, my mind reeling. Both looked legitimate. Both had official seals and lab signatures. But they couldn't both be true.

"Julian's been planning this for months," Alexander continued, taking a step closer. I could smell his cologne now, that familiar scent that usually comforted me but now made my stomach turn. "Ever since he found out you were alive. He's desperate to get you back, Elena. Desperate enough to fabricate evidence."

"But what if yours is the fake one?" I shot back, though my voice lacked conviction.

Alexander's jaw tightened, and for a moment, I saw something dangerous flash in his eyes. "Then prove it. Have another test done. Use an independent lab. But Elena—" He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Ask yourself who's been there for you. Who's raised Lila. Who's given you a life worth living."

I stared down at the reports again, my vision blurring. The words swam on the page, meaningless symbols that held the power to destroy everything I thought I knew about my life. I couldn't think straight. Couldn't process this.

The weight of everything—Josephine's death, Julian's reappearance, these conflicting reports—crashed down on me all at once. My knees felt weak, and I had to lean against the wall to stay upright.

"I need to lie down," I whispered. "I can't do this right now."

Alexander nodded, his expression softening. For a moment, he looked like the man who'd held me through nightmares, who'd taught Lila to ride her bike, who'd made me believe in love again.

"Of course," he said gently. "We'll figure this out tomorrow."

But as I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, my legs heavy and my heart heavier, one thought crystallized in my mind: I couldn't trust either of them anymore. Not Julian, with his desperate pleas and convenient DNA results. Not Alexander, with his careful manipulations and edited truths.

I needed the truth. The real truth, not whatever version either of them was selling me.

And the only way to get it was to do my own test—secretly, without either of them knowing. Tomorrow, I would take Lila to an independent lab. One that neither Alexander nor Julian could have influenced.

Only then would I know who was lying to me.