The words, spoken with chilling calm by Aristotle Dumas, were not a whisper but a venomous declaration that ripped through the opulent ballroom of Nikki Newman’s birthday party. Under the soft glow of chandeliers and the delicate clinking of champagne flutes, what was meant to be a jubilant celebration quickly unraveled into a spectacle of public humiliation and utter heartbreak – a moment so savage in its intimacy that no one in Genoa City would ever forget it.

Nikki Newman’s birthday party, orchestrated with elegance and splendor by those who claimed to love her, was suddenly shattered by a truth so precisely cruel, so surgically malicious, that the very foundation of her family was obliterated in an instant. It began with whispers, stray observations about the unusual tension in the room, the uneasy glances between certain guests, and a distinct, palpable sense that something dark and irreversible was lurking beneath the surface of this meticulously constructed gathering.

But no one, not even Victor Newman himself, the indomitable patriarch, could have foreseen the bombshell Aristotle Dumas would detonate with a calm so unsettling it bordered on the theatrical. In the middle of the evening, as guests gathered around for a toast, Aristotle took center stage, not with a glass in hand, but with a folder, an envelope, and a chilling smirk. He addressed the room not as an honored guest, but as a harbinger of reckoning. And when he announced he had results from a recent DNA test involving Victor and Nick, the very air left the room, like a collective gasp strangled in real time.