Emma George fell silent for a few more seconds, wiping her tears with a tissue before whispering, “Let me think about it a little longer..."

With a sigh, Emily Blair wrapped her arms around her. "You know, I'm the one who got mixed up at birth, but I'm not even crying. Meanwhile, you're bawling your eyes out."

Emma managed a weak laugh through her tears. "What, am I not allowed to cry now?"

Emily gave her shoulder a reassuring pat. “Alright, have your cry, but then go get some sleep. I've got work tomorrow-I can't stay up all night."

"Oh, right."

Emma sniffled, dabbing at her nose. "You go on, get some rest. Let me be alone for a little bit."

"Alright," Emily agreed.

Back in her own room, Emily couldn't shake the anxious, unsettled feeling in her chest. Almost on autopilot, she pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over her messaging app.

But just before she opened a chat, her finger froze.

It was late-far too late, really. Tristan Davis and Elizabeth Wilson weren't here with her. They had nothing to do with any of this. Telling them now would only worry them; it wouldn't help.

After a long moment of hesitation, Emily set her phone down and lay back, staring at the ceiling in the quiet.

Meanwhile, across town, Isabella's parents finally finished up their work for the night, exhaustion weighing heavily on them.

Isabella's mother walked over to her husband's side, her voice gentle. "Let's head home. It's late."

But her husband didn't move. He hung his head, his voice slow and heavy. "I keep thinking about what Emma George said."

At the mention of the name, Isabella's mother's brow furrowed. "Why are you even giving that any thought? You don't actually believe what she said, do you?"

He shook his head, tone measured. "I don't know what to believe. But what puzzles me is how did she know Isabella isn't really our biological daughter?"

Isabella's mother bristled, thinking of how Emma George always seemed fixated on Emily Blair. Her words came out sharp, "Why do you think? She's just trying to stir up trouble. You know the kind of person Emily Blair is what kind of mother raises a child like that? Emma's only saying these things to make us doubt Isabella. The more you take her words seriously, the more she wins."

Still, her husband looked uncertain. He drummed his fingers on the table, lost in thought.

Frustrated, Isabella's mother straightened up, smacking her hand on the table. "Think about it—if she really knew, why didn't she say anything while Isabella was still alive? Why wait until she's gone? She just wants to get under our skin."

She gave a cold, humorless laugh. "Playing the innocent, just like Emily Blair. Like mother, like daughter-never trust them."

He winced, but nodded slowly. "You're right. Why wait until now to say something? It doesn't add up."

“I'm glad you see it that way," Isabella's mother huffed. “Don't let those two fool you." But her husband kept tapping the table, looking troubled. "Even so, I can't stop thinking about our real daughter. Where is she? Will we ever find her?"

At that, Isabella's mother finally quieted, her anger fading into worry. "We'll keep looking. As long as she's out there, there's hope."

He let out a long, weary sigh. “Isabella's already suffered so much. I just don't want our real daughter to be out there, suffering too. I have this feeling her life hasn't been easy. If we do find her, will she blame us?"

"We'll make it up to her if we can," his wife said softly. "We never meant to lose her. She'll understand. She'll forgive us."

He closed his eyes, the weight of it all settling in. "God, I hope so."