---

---

Under my mother's watch, I'd never once imagined my father as a real, findable person. I certainly hadn't imagined he might be the head of one of London's most prominent investment families.

Before we found each other, he hadn't known I existed.

Gerald Harrington's family had come across me by accident — someone watching the evening news, footage from a conflict zone. A young journalist reporting from inside a collapsing neighbourhood in Syria. His sister recognised the face immediately. By the time they'd tracked down my surname, Gerald had already worked out what it might mean.

Twenty-something years ago, my mother had been a brilliant, beautiful young woman from Bristol who'd won a place at a London university. Gerald fell for her quickly, the kind of cross-class attraction that didn't fit anyone's expectations, least of all his family's.

Gerald's family placed enormous weight on bloodline. And the situation in the conflict zones I'd been working in was serious. When Gerald received word that I'd been badly injured — caught in an explosion while pulling a small girl to safety, leg shattered, critical — he didn't hesitate.

He called in every favour available to him, arranged an emergency medical flight through diplomatic channels, and had me brought back.

The DNA test came back the same day it was processed.

I was his daughter.