Dad Broke My Arm for His Affair Daughter

My dad made me a smoothie every morning for six months. I thought it was love.

It was a muscle relaxant.

He'd been slipping just enough into my drink to make my fingers tremble at full draw — just enough to cost me first place at every major competition. Not enough to kill me. Just enough to let Laurel beat me.

Laurel. His mistress's daughter. The girl he bought custom diamond jewelry while giving me clearance-rack gear for my birthday. The girl he wanted to drop into my family, my home, and my spot on the podium.

I found the proof. Stopped drinking his smoothies. Clawed my way back to number one.

Then, two days before the National Youth Archery Trials — the one competition that decides everything — he picked up a steel rod and swung it at my right arm.

My drawing arm.

The bone cracked. Doctors said three months minimum. My coach couldn't look me in the eye. Every scout, every scholarship, every dream I'd bled for over three years — gone in one swing from the man who was supposed to protect me.

Trials start tomorrow morning. And I can't hold a bow.

I was cutting into a ribeye when Dad opened his mouth.

"We need to talk. About Nolan."

I looked up at the man sitting across the dining table. My father.

Tomorrow was the opening day of the National Youth Archery Trials. For the past three years, he'd made it a habit to start a fight with Mom the night before every major competition I had. Sometimes he'd complain she didn't support his career enough. Other times he'd go off about household spending. Loud, ugly screaming matches designed to shred my focus when I needed it most.

Tonight, he'd raised the stakes.

"What do you mean?" Mom set down her wine glass, frowning. She'd just gotten back from the office — still sharp, still wound tight.

Dad took a deep breath and put on that expression I knew all too well. Rehearsed guilt. Manufactured pain.

"The hospital called today. There was a mix-up in their records fifteen years ago." He paused for effect. "Nolan isn't our biological son."

Mom's wine glass tipped over. Red bled across the white tablecloth.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Her voice cracked. She shot to her feet and stared him down.

"It's true!" Dad's voice climbed, eyes going red right on cue. "I ran a DNA test in secret! Nolan has none of our genes! And our real child — a daughter, out there suffering for fifteen years — I've already found her!"

Mom lost it. She snatched up the napkin and hurled it at his face. "Have you completely lost your MIND? Brynn has Trials TOMORROW and you pull this NOW?"

Dad rose to his feet, slammed his palm on the table — the picture of righteous fury. "Our own flesh and blood is out there! I'm bringing her home tomorrow! Brynn is the older sister — she can't handle a little news?"

Then he turned to me.

And I caught it — that little flash of triumph hiding behind the performance. He was waiting for me to crack. Waiting for me to scream like Mom. Waiting for me to spiral so hard I'd lie awake all night and show up at the range tomorrow unable to draw my bow.

I didn't give him that.

I finished my last bite of steak. Chewed. Swallowed. Wiped my mouth with my napkin.

"You done?"

Dad blinked. He hadn't seen this coming.

"Brynn, what kind of attitude is that? She's your own sister!"

"Oh, my sister." I raised an eyebrow. "Let's back up a second. You said the hospital mixed up the babies. Random accident. So why does this 'sister who's been suffering out there' just happen to train at my archery club?"

Dad's face twitched.

I stood up. Planted both hands on the table. Leaned in until I was staring straight into his eyes.

"Why does she just happen to be named Laurel? Why does she just happen to be Renee Whitmore's kid? Did you really think I didn't know Renee was your college girlfriend?"

Mom stopped shaking. She went completely still, then slowly turned to look at Dad.

"That's — you're making this up!" The color drained from Dad's face. His voice came out thin and hollow.

"You wanted to sneak your mistress's daughter into this family. You wanted her biggest competition out of the way before Trials. And the best script you could come up with was 'switched at birth.'" I picked up my water glass and threw the ice water straight in his face. "You want to bring her home? Fine. Let me wipe the floor with her on the range and lock down my Ivy League spot first. Then we'll settle the rest."

Water dripped off his chin. He just sat there. Soaked. Speechless.

I turned toward the stairs. Paused on the first step. Looked back over my shoulder.

"How long have you known that I already knew everything?"