Outside, the car was waiting.
I helped the children in, then slid in beside them.
“Did we do good, Mama?” Sophia asked.
“You did perfect,” I said.
As we pulled away from the Plaza, my phone started buzzing.
Texts. Emails. Calls from reporters, investors, lawyers.
The story was already spreading.
Billionaire tech mogul crashes ex-husband’s wedding with secret quadruplets.
Sterling heir confronted by children he never knew existed.
Wedding of the decade becomes scandal of the decade.
I silenced my phone and looked at my children.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Starving,” Oliver said.
“Then let us get pizza,” I said. “The kind your father would never approve of.”
We went to a tiny pizzeria in Brooklyn, the kind of place I used to go to when I was a broke graduate student.
The kind of place that served pizza on paper plates and did not care who you were or how much money you had.
My children, who had only ever eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants, devoured the greasy slices like they were the best thing they had ever tasted.
Maybe they were.
“Mama,” Lucas said, his serious face smudged with sauce. “Are we going to see them again?”
“Do you want to?” I asked.
He thought about it.