36. Dane Gallagher #3
Mitchell—the man I measured myself against without ever choosing to. The one I thought I was disappointing, or impressing, or falling short of in ways I couldn’t quite name. The man I built myself around, because that’s what you do when you think someone’s your father.
Take him out of the equation, and something shifts.
Not gone. Just… rearranged.
I look at her. At the woman who set that in place and left it there.
“Explain that to me.”
Something softens in her expression.
“I fell in love with someone else. You are his child.”
“Who?”
Her eyes flick toward Marcus, and I follow her gaze.
“You,” I say. “That’s why you look at me the way you do.”
For a second, nobody says anything. Marcus just stands there, looking at me.
Then, quietly, he says, “I look at you that way because I’m finally looking at my son. The son I thought I’d lost before I ever got the chance to know him.”
I stare at him. Then at Mum. Then back at him.
“You let another man raise me. Both of you.”
“We did,” my mother says. “Because at the time, it felt like the right thing for you.”
“How was that the right thing for me?”
Mum looks down, then back at me. “Mitchell could give you things Marcus couldn’t. Stability. A name. Security. At the time, that mattered.”
The pieces start sliding into place.
The way I never looked like Dad.
Or Ryan, who looked so much like him.
That feeling I'd carried my whole life of belonging, but not completely. Of being part of something while somehow standing just outside it.
The way Dad connected with Charlotte—easy and effortless. The way I always seemed to be watching from the edge of it.
I see it now. Or at least I think I do.
“Does Grandad know?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“He may have suspected, but he never said anything.”
No. I suppose most men would rather live with a suspicion than have it confirmed.
I look at Marcus—at my father—and feel something that isn’t simple. Something I recognize, even if I don’t fully understand it yet. Like something’s been missing and I’ve only just noticed.
And underneath that—faster than I expect—clarity.
I look back at my mother.
“Charlotte and I—”
She shakes her head.
“Are not siblings.”
Not the same father. Charlotte is Mitchell’s child. I’m not.
Everything people think they know about us—everything they’ve built around it—isn’t true.
A door I didn’t even know existed has just opened.
I become aware of Charlotte watching me.
Waiting.
I look at her. At her face. The curve of her beneath the dress.
Our son wasn’t a mistake. He’s not something to hide. Neither are we. And somehow, I think that’s going to disappoint people. They were hoping for something uglier.
Gallagher.
I think about the name I’ve carried my whole life. The version of myself built around it.
It doesn’t matter.
I look at Marcus, my father. Then at my mother.
“Tell me everything. I need to understand.”
She nods.
“Mitchell and I were already coming apart. Not in a way anyone else could see, but it was there. He was gone more than he was home. And when he was home...” She trails off. “He wasn't really there. That's when I met Marcus and fell pregnant. And I knew Mitchell would realize he wasn't the father.”
A pause.
“So I made sure he wouldn't question it.”
The pieces slide together all at once.
“I knew exactly what I was doing. We’re being honest, so I’m not going to pretend otherwise. And as far as I know, he never questioned it.”
There’s a difference between something uncertain and something chosen. This wasn’t confusion. It was deliberate.
“And you?” I say, looking at Marcus. “Did you know I was your son?”
He stays where he is for a moment, then finally turns from the window to look at me.
“I knew.” He exhales slowly. “We both knew what she was going to do. I went along with it.”
No attempt to soften it.
“I kept coming back to the same question. What would actually be different if you grew up as my son instead of Mitchell’s?”
He pauses.
“My name instead of his. My life instead of his. And every time I thought it through, it felt like I’d be taking more from you than I’d be giving. Mitchell could give you things I couldn’t. And I knew it.”
I don’t understand that. Not instinctively.
There isn’t a version of me that would let another man raise my son. I’d burn my entire life to the ground before I let that happen.
The name. The fortune. Everything attached to it.
If I’m not Mitchell’s son, then none of it belongs to me. And the strange thing is, I don’t care. Not even a little.
Charlotte is his only surviving child. It was always hers.
I’m Marcus Shepherd’s son, which means none of it was ever mine to begin with.
I look at the woman beside me. The woman who has my heart. The woman carrying my child. That’s what I have. And somehow, it feels like more than enough.
Mum glances between Charlotte and me.
“You and Charlotte have options now. If you establish paternity formally—through testing and documentation—everything changes.”
“We’ll need a lawyer,” I say.
“We already have the best one,” Charlotte says. “I’ll call her tomorrow and explain everything so we can begin the process of making this right.”
I look at my mother. “It’s still not simple. I know what it means—saying Dad isn’t my father, walking away from the name, the inheritance. But I don’t care about any of it. I’d give it up this second if that’s what it takes to be with Charlotte and my son.”
Marcus clears his throat. “I’ve been putting money aside for years. It’s not Gallagher money. I know it’s not close to what you—”
“I don’t want your money.”
He flinches at my words.
“I don’t mean that unkindly. I appreciate it, but you have three people who depend on you. You should keep it.”
He nods once. “Understood. But the offer stands. It’s yours if you need it.”
Charlotte leans into me, her head against my shoulder. My hand is already there, spread over the curve of her stomach, and beneath it our son moves.
She tilts her head, studying me. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath.
My whole life just got turned upside down.
Not in a bad way. Not really. More like discovering a piece of the story was wrong and realizing everything makes a little more sense with it in the right place.
“Ask me again in a week.”
I sit there with Charlotte’s hand in mine, trying to get my head around everything.
Mitchell isn't my father.
Marcus is.
Charlotte and I aren't siblings.
None of it feels real yet.
But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I'm fighting the truth.
I feel like I've finally found it.