The sun had barely climbed above the Tuscan hills when Ridge Forrester’s entire world began to unravel. Standing in the doorway of a centuries-old villa, his chest tight and breath shallow, Ridge faced the impossible: Phoebe—his daughter long thought dead—was standing before him, not a memory, not a dream, but flesh and blood. Her blue eyes shimmered with accusation, not affection. And her first words cut him deeper than any blade: “Dad, why did you betray Mom?”
Those words shattered Ridge’s fragile reality. Years of guilt, buried beneath excuses and second chances, surged forward. He remembered the night they lost Phoebe, the months of mourning that followed, and the way he had found fleeting comfort in Brooke’s arms while Taylor withered in grief. And now, standing before him, was the very embodiment of that guilt—alive, breathing, and seething with the rage of a daughter who had witnessed everything from the shadows.
