Ophelia tried to explain, but her words trailed off, and she pressed her lips together, going silent.

Two years ago, I was in a car accident myself. An eight-wheeler truck lost control and came barreling right at me.

I got pinned underneath, and all I could think about was calling my wife.

I desperately wanted to tell her that if I didn't make it, she should take my inheritance and find a good man who could take care of her for the rest of her life.

But the reality—I called her 50 times, and she didn't pick up...

Thank goodness, just when I was about to give up, the call finally connected.

I told her I was in a car accident and might not survive.

But instead of sympathy, all I got was her irritated lecture. "Dammit! Can you stop calling me out of the blue?! I'm busy as hell, you know?"

She even threatened me, hissing, "If you're just trying to get my attention, I wouldn't hesitate to divorce you, Duncan!"

After that, I didn't dare disturb her again. I faced death all on my own.

I was lucky, though. The emergency responders showed up just in time, pulling me out seconds before the truck exploded.

But the long period of pressure on my legs crushed the bones, and it took six long months before I could walk again.

It wasn't until a few months ago that I found out what had kept Ophelia so "busy" back then.

She was planning a welcome-back party for Edmund, who had just returned from abroad.

Meanwhile, I was stuck with post-traumatic rheumatoid arthritis, a constant reminder that flared up every time it rained.

With my words leaving her no room for excuses, Ophelia just stood beside Edmund, both of them quiet.

Just as she opened her mouth to try again, I cut her off. "I've got things to take care of. You take care of your first love."

With that, I continued my tracks, disappearing down the hallway.

In the office, my childhood buddy held the paternity test results. Worry was etched all over his face as he looked at me.

"Duncan, perhaps… you shouldn't look at this?" he suggested, almost hesitantly.

But deep down, I already knew what was coming, so I snatched both reports and compared them side by side.

The first one read: [0.00000001% chance of a biological relationship]

The second report: [99.99%]

It hit me like a ton of bricks—Ollie was Edmund's kid.