out a faded black-and-white photograph. It showed two identical young women standing side by side, both bearing the unmistakable round birthmark on their left shoulders. In the arms of one stood a tiny infant—me.
“I spent three decades amassing enough power and security to keep you safe from afar,” Celia whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks. “When I finally found you again, living in poverty, surrounded by a family who took advantage of you… I knew I couldn’t just hand you a bag of money without drawing suspicion from my enemies. So I created a story. A rich, lonely older woman marrying a young man.”
“You… you married me?” I stammered, my head spinning in horror and confusion. “You’re my aunt?!”
“Only on paper! To transfer my entire estate, my protection, and my legacy to you legally before they come for me,” she cried. “It was the only way to
