Constance set her book aside with measured care. “You are emotional. That rarely helps men in your position.”
“Answer me.”
She rose and crossed to the bar cart. “The results I showed you came from a reputable lab.”
“Name it.”
“It’s been years.”
“Name. It.”
Her hand stilled over the decanter.
That tiny hesitation hit Justin harder than any confession.
“You forged it.” The words came out flat. Dead. “Or you paid someone to forge it.”
Constance exhaled as though Justin were forcing her to explain arithmetic to a child. “I protected you.”
The room tilted.
Justin stared at her. “Protected me from what?”
“From making a catastrophic mistake. From tying yourself to a woman who would have derailed your future before it began.”
“Zara never wanted my money.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
Constance turned, perfectly composed, perfectly cruel. “She was a struggling illustrator living in a walk-up in Brooklyn, wearing paint on her hands and calling it charm. You were already negotiating your first international acquisition. You were building something that would last generations. She would have made you soft.”
The words hit Justin with a delayed, blistering rage.
“She loved me.”
His mother gave a slight shrug. “That is often the most inconvenient type of woman.”
Justin stepped forward so fast the bar cart rattled. “You destroyed my life.”
“I saved it.”
“No,” he snapped. “You trained me to confuse obedience with strength. You taught me to trust control over love, appearances over people, legacy over truth, and because of that I abandoned the woman carrying my child.”
Constance’s eyes hardened. “She was beneath you.”
