Ezra stared down at Harlow. His chest heaved with heavy, uneven breaths. The amber liquid in his crystal glass sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his fingers.

He hated this. He hated the way she looked at him with those desperate, dying eyes. He hated the way her kneeling made him feel like a monster. It was a blatant emotional manipulation, a calculated attack on his sanity.

Ezra slammed the whiskey glass down onto the bar cart. The loud crack of glass hitting marble made Harlow flinch.

"Get up," Ezra commanded, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "Stop this pathetic act and get off my floor."

Harlow didn't move. She bit her lower lip so hard a drop of blood welled up. She kept her chin raised, her dull eyes locked onto his with a terrifying, stubborn resolve.

She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized coat. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a cheap pair of folding scissors and a small, clear Ziploc bag.

She held them up in the air between them.

Ezra's pupils contracted. He took a swift half-step back, his muscles tensing. For a second, he thought she was going to stab herself.

But Harlow just opened the scissors. She reached up, grabbed a small chunk of her own dull, lifeless hair near the root, and snipped.

She dropped the strands of hair into the Ziploc bag.

Then, she placed her hands flat on the floor and pushed herself up. Her legs wobbled, but she managed to stand.

She turned around and began to walk out of the study, her steps slow and dragging.

Ezra's brow furrowed. He followed her out into the massive foyer, his eyes glued to her back.

In the corner of the hall, Clementine was still curled up on the velvet sofa. She was sleeping, but her small face was scrunched up in distress. Tear tracks stained her pale cheeks.

Harlow dropped to her knees beside the sofa. Her movements were incredibly gentle. She brushed a stray blonde curl away from Clementine's ear.

With a quick, precise motion, Harlow snipped a few strands of hair from the back of her daughter's head, making sure to get the follicles.

Clementine whimpered in her sleep, shifting uncomfortably.

Harlow immediately dropped the scissors. She placed her hand flat against the little girl's chest, patting her in a slow, rhythmic motion until Clementine's breathing steadied.

Harlow picked up the Ziploc bag, dropped Clementine's hair inside, and sealed it tight.

She stood up, turned around, and walked back to Ezra. She held the plastic bag out to him.

"Here," Harlow said. Her voice was completely hollow, stripped of all emotion. "Take it to any lab you trust. Do it yourself, so you know I didn't tamper with it. I just want a fair result. I want you to see that she has your blood."

Ezra stared at the clear plastic bag. The strands of blonde and brown hair rested at the bottom. He looked at it like it was a live grenade.

His brain screamed at him to throw it away. He remembered the photos of her walking into Atticus's hotel room. He knew this was a trap.

But deep down, a tiny, insidious seed of doubt began to sprout.

Ezra raised his hand. His face was a mask of cold indifference. He pinched the top corner of the Ziploc bag with two fingers, looking at it with utter disgust, and pulled it from her grasp.

The moment the bag left her hand, Ezra turned to the wall intercom. He slammed his palm against the button connecting to the security gate.

"Send two men to the main house," Ezra ordered, his voice robotic. "Escort the intruders off my property."

Harlow watched him call security. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice, but she didn't cry. She had accomplished what she came to do.

Two massive security guards jogged through the front doors a minute later. They stopped in the foyer, gesturing toward the exit.

Harlow didn't fight. She walked over to the sofa and slid her arms under Clementine.

As she lifted the sleeping four-year-old, the physical exertion was too much for her failing lungs. Harlow's legs buckled. She stumbled forward, nearly dropping the child onto the marble floor.

Ezra stood ten feet away. When he saw her stumble, his right arm violently twitched upward, a pure instinct to catch her.

But he forced his arm back down. He nailed his feet to the floor, his jaw locked tight.

Harlow caught her balance. She clutched Clementine tightly against her chest. She turned her head and looked at Ezra one last time.

Her eyes held no anger. Only an endless, bottomless exhaustion and a profound sorrow.

She turned around and walked out the front doors, stepping back into the freezing, pitch-black night.

The security guards pulled the heavy oak doors shut. The loud click of the deadbolt echoed through the empty foyer.

Ezra was left completely alone.

For a reason he couldn't articulate, the image of the little girl's wide, frightened eyes was seared into his mind. There was a haunting familiarity in that terrified stare, a ghost of something he violently refused to acknowledge.

A wave of suffocating panic crashed over him. He couldn't breathe.

Ezra marched over to the glass coffee table and slammed the Ziploc bag down onto it. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his private assistant, Simon Caldwell.

"Simon," Ezra barked the second the call connected. "Find the top private genetics lab in the country. I need an expedited, legally binding DNA test done tomorrow. And Simon-make sure absolutely no one knows about this."

At 4:00 AM, Harlow dragged her feet up the fifth flight of stairs in a decaying Brooklyn apartment building. The narrow hallway reeked of stale urine and rotting garbage.

She carried Clementine in her arms. The little girl was dead weight, completely exhausted.

Harlow pulled a rusted key from her pocket. Her hands shook so violently she dropped it twice before finally sliding it into the lock. She pushed the flimsy wooden door open.

The apartment was nothing more than a cramped, freezing studio. A single mattress lay on the floor next to a cheap hot plate.

Harlow walked to the mattress and gently laid Clementine down. She unzipped the dirty, oversized coat and pulled a thin, scratchy blanket up to the girl's chin. She smoothed her daughter's hair, her touch as light as a feather.

The moment she stepped back, a brutal spasm seized Harlow's chest.

She slapped both hands over her mouth. She sprinted to the tiny, moldy bathroom and kicked the door shut behind her.

Harlow collapsed over the chipped porcelain sink. She coughed. The sound was wet and tearing. Hot, thick blood spewed from her lips, slipping through her fingers and splattering against the white porcelain.

The crimson stains looked terrifyingly bright under the flickering fluorescent bulb.

Harlow gripped the edges of the sink, her knuckles white. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her skin was the color of ash. Her cheekbones jutted out sharply beneath her sunken eyes.

She knew the truth. Her body was shutting down. She didn't have three months. She might not even have one.

She turned on the cold water, washing the blood down the drain. She scrubbed her face aggressively, trying to force some color into her dead skin. She opened a plastic bottle and dry-swallowed two cheap, over-the-counter painkillers.

At 7:00 AM, the shrill beep of a dollar-store alarm clock filled the room.

Clementine sat up on the mattress. She rubbed her eyes and blindly reached for the nightstand, her fingers finding the cracked plastic hearing aid. She pushed it into her ear.

Harlow was already dressed in a clean, faded button-down shirt. She walked over holding a chipped bowl of steaming oatmeal.

Harlow plastered a massive, bright smile on her face. She set the bowl down and raised her hands, signing 'Good morning, sunshine' with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Clementine didn't smile back. The little girl's eyes were wide with fear. She reached out and grabbed Harlow's sleeve, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline.

Clementine raised her free hand. She clumsily signed, 'Angry man. Who? Did I do bad?'

Harlow's heart shattered into a million jagged pieces.

She pushed the bowl away and pulled Clementine into her lap, wrapping her arms tightly around her small body. Harlow squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from falling.

She pulled back and raised her hands, signing slowly and clearly. 'He is a helper. You are perfect. You did nothing wrong.'

Clementine shook her head. She buried her face in Harlow's neck, letting out a soft, broken whimper. She signed against Harlow's chest, 'Don't leave me.'

A tear slipped down Harlow's cheek, landing in Clementine's blonde hair.

'I will never leave you,' Harlow signed back, telling the most agonizing lie of her life. 'I will watch you grow up.'

To distract her, Harlow reached under the mattress and pulled out a brand-new, bright yellow backpack. She had saved for a month to buy it.

She signed to Clementine that today was her first day at a new preschool, a place where she would make lots of friends. Clementine looked terrified, but seeing her mother's hopeful eyes, she slowly nodded and began to eat the oatmeal.

At 9:00 AM, Harlow held Clementine's hand as they stood in the lobby of a community-funded Inclusive Preschool in Brooklyn.

The receptionist, a kind older woman, looked up from her clipboard. Her eyes widened when she saw Harlow's ghostly complexion.

"Honey, are you okay?" the receptionist asked softly. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"

Harlow panicked. She waved her hands frantically. "No, no. I'm fine. I just work night shifts. I'm just tired."

She crouched down in front of Clementine. She adjusted the straps of the yellow backpack. She smiled, signing that she would be back at exactly 3:00 PM.

Clementine's lower lip trembled. She grabbed Harlow's index finger and refused to let go. Tears welled up in her large blue eyes.

Harlow had to harden her heart. She gently, but firmly, pried Clementine's fingers loose. She handed the crying girl to the teacher, stood up, and walked out the door without looking back.

The moment Harlow hit the sidewalk, her legs gave out. She leaned against the rough brick wall of the school. She covered her mouth with both hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently as she listened to her daughter's muffled cries from inside.

Suddenly, her cheap prepaid phone buzzed in her pocket.

Harlow wiped her eyes and answered.

"Ms. Aguilar," a cold, professional voice said. "This is Simon Caldwell, Mr. Bray's assistant. Mr. Bray has arranged the DNA test. A car will pick you and the child up tomorrow morning for the official swab."

A massive surge of adrenaline hit Harlow's system. The dead look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a blazing spark of hope.

"Thank you," Harlow gasped, her voice trembling with relief. "Thank you so much."

Simon was silent for two seconds. "Don't get your hopes up, Ms. Aguilar," he warned coldly, and hung up.

Harlow lowered the phone. She looked up at the gray Brooklyn sky and let out a long, shaky breath.

It didn't matter what Ezra thought now. The science would prove it. Clementine would have a father.