Marceline’s eyes locked onto Cross, searching his face for any flicker of doubt or hesitation. But his expression was calm, almost unreadable—like a stone fortress. The words he had just spoken echoed inside her mind, clashing violently with everything she believed.

She shook her head slowly, the movement almost involuntary. No. That’s not possible. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the brittle veneer of certainty she tried to wear. “You’re mistaken,” she said softly but firmly. “My mother wouldn’t hurt anyone. She didn’t know that he was married at first… before she knew, it was already too late.”

The sentence hung in the air like a desperate plea. Marceline wanted to...