I was born with a cursed mouth. Whenever I spoke of something bad, it came true. When I was four years old, I dropped a single grain of rice at dinner. My grandmother flew into a rage, yanked me by the arm, and dragged me toward the old outhouse behind the house.

Chapter 13

When the monk was done, I walked toward Vivian’s father.

He was no longer standing like a powerful businessman. He looked like a man whose understanding of the world had been kicked out from under him.

“Mr. Clarke,” I said, “I’m going to tell you something difficult. Vivian Clarke is not your biological daughter.”

The room erupted.

“That’s absurd,” he snapped, though I could hear the strain in his voice. “I was there the day she was born.”

I looked at him steadily. “You are known as a generous man. Your wife is graceful, kind, and measured. Have you never found it strange that the daughter you raised takes pleasure in ruining the weak?”

He said nothing.

“If you don’t believe me,” I continued, “test it. Right now. DNA.”

Vivian went wild.

“You liar!” she screamed. “You’re trying to ruin me because of your sister!”

But her father was already staring at her differently now. Not with certainty. Not with the blind affection of years. With doubt.

“Do the test,” he said at last.

Professionals were called. Blood was drawn despite Vivian’s resistance. Mrs. Clarke was summoned from home, elegant and composed, though confusion flickered in her eyes as she entered the room.

When she saw Vivian, she did not rush to comfort her. She simply sat down and waited.

That alone told me more than words ever could.

The results came back quickly.

Vivian Clarke was not their daughter.

Silence crashed over the room.

Vivian was the first to break it. “No. No, that’s impossible. Your lab is fake. You set this up. Dad, say something!”

Mrs. Clarke’s expression remained unreadable, but her voice was low and steady when she spoke.

“From the day you were born, something always felt… off. I blamed myself for it. I thought I was a poor mother because I could never feel close to you the way I should have. I never imagined this.”

Mr. Clarke looked as if he had aged ten years in ten minutes.

He loved his wife. He loved the daughter he thought was his. But now every cruel thing Vivian had done, every warning sign he had excused, every moment that didn’t fit the family he believed in, was rising around him like wreckage.

He turned to me slowly.

“If Vivian isn’t my daughter…” he said hoarsely, “then where is she?”

My eyes burned.

I pointed toward the restaurant entrance.

“Outside,” I said. “Waiting with my mother.”