It’s a shame,” Margaret sighed, her voice dripping with that peculiar brand of poison she disguised as sympathy. She smoothed a stray hair from her forehead. “Liam has such… specific features. The Harrison jawline, the eyes. It will be so difficult for the child if he comes out looking too different. People talk, Elena. In our circles, they always talk.”

I didn’t flinch. I had spent three years training myself not to react to her barbs. Margaret fed on emotion; she was a vampire of insecurity. If you bled, she feasted.

I adjusted my veil, meeting her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “DNA is a funny thing, Margaret,” I said softly. “It always tells the truth eventually. Even when people try to bury it deep underground.”