The next morning, over steaming cups of coffee and fresh croissants, Pierre began to unravel the tapestry of our shared past. He spoke of my youth, a time I had nearly forgotten, when I had spent a summer in this very house. Pierre had been a young, charismatic artist then, brimming with passion and promise. Our brief love affair had ended as abruptly as it began, a casualty of circumstance and unspoken obligations.

But it was in the revelation of Richard’s true paternity that the pieces of this intricate puzzle began to fit. Pierre was Richard’s father. The shock of this truth collided with my grief, creating an emotional maelstrom that left me breathless. Richard must have discovered this secret, hidden even from him, and wanted me to finally confront it.