The mention of my father brought my goals back into focus. Reminded me why I hadn’t been able to stomach staying under Axios’s roof for one more day. That feeling of a loss of control. Of suffocation. Of not being able to live my life on my own terms. My choices being taken away from me without so much as a by your leave...

‘I’m not my father,’ I stressed, with every cell in my body.

‘No, you’re not. But while I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt before, your actions have led me to form a different opinion about you. So whatever your reasons were, tell me now.’

‘Or what?’

He didn’t speak for the longest moment. Then his attention shifted to the cot where Andreos slept, lost in baby dreams. My heart tripped over itself as I watched Axios’s face. Watched him speculate with that clever mind financial analysts rhapsodised over.

‘Is he the reason?’

‘What do you mean?’

His jaw rippled. ‘If there was an indiscretion, I urge you to confess it now rather than later.’

His words shouldn’t have scraped my emotions. Considering what my mother had done, and the fall-out and gossip that had followed, I knew all too well how assumptions were made, judgements passed without verification. But the reality that he suspected Andreos wasn’t his lanced a soft spot in my heart.

A fierce need to protect my child’s honour ploughed through me. ‘We may not have known each other before we met at the altar, but you should know that I would rather cut off my own arm before attempting to lie about my child’s parentage. Whether you’re willing to accept it or not, he’s yours.’

If I’d expected my fervour to melt his coldness, I was sorely disappointed.

‘Your vigorous defence of your child is admirable. But, as you said, we were virtual strangers before we came together. If you want me to believe you, tell me where you’ve been. Every single thing you’ve done in the past year. Then perhaps I’ll consider believing you.’

The list reeled through my head.

Finding the bank account in Switzerland my grandmother had left in my name.

Seeing the private doctor who’d treated me.

Getting the results and feeling the soul-wrecking fear that my fate would echo my grandmother’s.

Making the choice I had to make.

Andreos’s arrival.

Saying the fervent prayers for more. One more day. One week. One month.

One year.

I couldn’t tell Axios any of that. Even the simple joy of rediscovering my love of painting and finding the shops and galleries I’d sold my watercolours to seemed too sacred, too private to share with the man who looked at me with rancour and suspicion. Whose every breath seemed like a silent pledge to uncover my secrets.

My life. Lived on my terms.

That was what I’d sworn to myself that rainy afternoon in my hotel room after leaving Dr Trudeau’s office. For the most part, it had been.