Elly didn’t hesitate. The moment she saw him, she ran forward, her arms stretched wide. “Daddy! Daddy! Look at my dress!”
My heart clenched.
But Archie’s face drained of color. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
He moved quickly, reaching for her, eyes darting around the room. “Elly? Who brought you here? Where’s your mother?”
He wasn’t happy to see her, wasn’t even surprised.
He was panicked.
And in that moment, the truth hit me like a slap.
That message… it wasn’t from Archie.
He hadn’t remembered the promise or prepared anything for Elly.
Whispers began floating in the air, sharp as broken glass.
“Who is that rude little girl? Calling a man she doesn’t know her daddy?”
“Isn’t Archie’s child still in Betty’s belly?”
“I thought Archie never married. Where’d this kid even come from?”
“Probably just some desperate woman trying to pawn her kid off on him for money.”
“Look at her. She looks like the type.”
Archie’s face flushed a dark red—embarrassed, angry, or both. He stepped forward, too quickly, too harshly. “Who is this child?” he snapped. “I’m no father to her. Someone get her out of here.”
And just like that, he shoved Elly.
Not hard, but hard enough for her little legs to stumble and send her tumbling backward onto the polished floor.
I was at her side in a heartbeat, gathering her in my arms, bracing for tears—but there were none.
Elly blinked up at him, then down at her shoes. “Sorry, Mr. Valez… I thought …”
I held her tight, my heart shattering into splinters. “You’ve done nothing wrong, baby. Nothing.”
But still, she looked toward him with hope.
She pointed at the towering cake beside the champagne fountain. “Is that the cake Mr. Valez’s surprise for me? Can I blow the candle on it?”
Before I could answer, a sugary voice cut through the air like poison honey.
“No, you can’t,” Betty crooned, gliding toward us in a tight cocktail dress. Her heels clicked like daggers. “That’s my cake. And only I can blow out the candles.”
She leaned down, lips barely curved. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners? When you go to someone else’s party, you don’t act entitled. And sweetheart, you don’t run around calling strange men your daddy. It’s rude. Isn’t that right, Archie?”
The smug look she threw me was almost comical in its gloating.
Now I knew who sent that message.
It was probably Betty. Her need to humiliate me. To make it clear to the world—and the press—that Elly was not a Valez. That she would never be a Valez.
