"Get out of my room immediately!" Renata's voice cracked across the wood-paneled bedroom the instant Sophia pushed through the door, teal silk robe swirling with the force of her movement, every carefully maintained inch of her composure cracking at the sight of the other woman standing in her nursery doorway. Sophia didn't flinch. She had spent eight months building the case she now carried folded in her coat pocket — hospital records, a nurse's signed statement, a paternity test Renata didn't know existed — and she hadn't come this far to be intimidated by a woman standing in a stolen house. "This isn't your room to order me out of," Sophia said quietly, stepping past Renata toward the crib in the corner. "Not really. It never was." Julian stood near the doorway, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and the particular defensive loyalty of a man used to taking his wife's side automatically. "Sophia, you can't just walk in here—" "I can," Sophia said, "and I am." She reached the crib and, before either Julian or Renata could stop her, pulled back the soft white sheet covering the sleeping infant inside. "Dad, look at her," Sophia said, and something in her voice had gone very quiet, very certain. "Look at her eyes. Look at the birthmark on her wrist. This is Camille's daughter. This is my niece. And the lying is over."