The DNA Report That Silenced the Mistress Who Tried to Steal My Son

The Secret Beneath the Floorboards

That night, the mansion felt different — darker, like the walls were closing in. Ethan wouldn't let go of my hand. He'd stopped crying, but his eyes were wide, watchful, as if he expected Selena to come back.

I couldn't sleep. Her words echoed in my head: "What's buried in your own house." I had searched every room, pulled back rugs, opened closets. Nothing.

At 2 a.m., I was in the drawing room, staring at the marble hearth. The fire was out, the room cold. Ethan had finally drifted off on the velvet sofa, clutching his music box.

Then I noticed it: a loose floorboard near the hearth, slightly raised, catching the moonlight. I knelt down and pried it open. Inside, wrapped in a silk cloth, was a black leather journal.

I opened it. The handwriting was my late wife's.

"My dearest Rafael, if you're reading this, then Selena has made her move. I knew she would. I've been watching her for months. She's been plotting to take everything from you — to take Ethan. But I've left something behind that will destroy her."

My hands trembled as I turned the pages. There were photographs, bank statements, email printouts, and a USB drive. She had evidence of everything: Selena's affair with a hospital administrator, the bribes she'd paid, the forged documents she'd used to try to gain control of my company.

But the last page stopped me cold. It was a birth certificate. Not Ethan's — another child's. A little girl, born the same day as Ethan. And the mother's name was Selena.

"She switched the babies," I whispered. "She didn't just try to disinherit Ethan. She gave him away."

I felt sick. My wife had known. She had discovered the truth, but she'd died before she could expose Selena. Now, with this journal, I could finish what she started.

But there was more. At the bottom of the journal, my wife had written: "The child is alive. Find her. She's the key to everything."

I didn't sleep that night. I made calls, woke up my lawyer, and had him trace the hospital records. By dawn, we had a name: a girl named Lily, living in a foster home across town.

I drove there with Ethan, my heart pounding. A social worker led us into a small, sterile room. And there she was — a little girl with the same auburn hair as Ethan, the same green eyes as my wife.

"Daddy?" Ethan asked, looking at me. "Who is she?"

I knelt down, my voice barely a whisper. "She's your sister."

Lily looked at me with confusion, then at Ethan. She was holding a worn teddy bear, her knuckles white. "Is it true?" she asked. "Do I have a family?"

I couldn't speak. I just opened my arms, and she ran into them, sobbing. Ethan joined us, wrapping his arms around both of us.

That's when my phone rang. It was the police station. "Mr. Castellano," the officer said, "Selena is demanding to speak with you. She says she has information about your wife's death."

My blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

"She says your wife didn't die of a heart condition. She says it was poison."

The world tilted. I looked at Ethan and Lily, huddled together, and I knew I had to go back. I had to face her.

But as I drove to the station, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't over. Selena had played her hand, and I had played mine. But the game wasn't finished.