“Prepare a statement,” I said. “Confirming that Julian Sterling is the biological father of my children. Confirming that I attempted to inform him of the pregnancy but was paid to leave before I could. And confirming that I have raised these children without a single dollar of child support or contact from their father.”
“That is going to destroy his reputation,” my lawyer said.
“Good,” I said. “He destroyed mine five years ago. Turnabout is fair play.”
I hung up and turned back to my children, who were arguing about whether mushrooms belonged on pizza.
This was my family.
Not the cold, silent dinners at the Sterling estate.
Not the perfect appearances and the hollow conversations.
This. Greasy pizza and loud arguments and unconditional love.
This was what I had built.
And no amount of Sterling money could ever buy it.
The next morning, my phone would not stop ringing.
The story had exploded overnight.
Every major news outlet wanted an interview.
The financial press was analyzing the optics of a trillion-dollar company being run by a woman with four secret children.
The gossip sites were dissecting every angle of the Sterling family drama.
And the Sterling family was in full crisis mode.