The world held its breath. It was rare that the public felt so invested in one man’s paternity test, but Damien Sinclair was no ordinary man. He was the billionaire media titan. The face of Sinclair Media. And now, the accused father of a secret love child born out of betrayal.News channels ran endless loops of speculation. Talk shows dissected timelines. Anonymous sources popped out of nowhere to offer statements that were vague, shady, and mostly false.Celeste sat in the living room with her phone turned face-down. The TV was off. For once, she didn’t want to see the headlines. She didn’t want to feel the weight of the world’s gaze pressing down on her like it had when she was younger, when a scandal could undo her completely.Damien walked in, holding a manila envelope."It’s here," he said.Celeste stood. Her heartbeat stalled. She didn’t ask what it was. She knew.He opened the envelope slowly. Deliberately. Pulled out the papers. Read. Then looked up at her with a breath that
Celeste read the words once. Then twice. The lines were sharp and sterile, the kind of legal phrasing that felt almost laughable if the implications weren’t so explosive.Claimant alleges Mr. Damien Sinclair engaged in a sexual relationship resulting in conception during the period of October 20XX. The minor, born July 20XY, is allegedly the biological child of the respondent...”She lowered the phone to her lap, blinking slowly. “Is this real?”Damien’s jaw was tight. He looked like he hadn’t even processed the shock yet. “It’s filed. Which means it’s been set in motion, even if it’s completely fabricated.”Celeste stood, pacing the room in tight, tense strides. “And the timing. Just after the interview airs? She waited for you to be humanized again, just so that she could weaponize your past.”“She’s trying to undermine everything you just earned,” Damien said, rising to his feet. “If the public starts to believe this, if they think I’ve been hiding a child for four years—”“They wo
The studio was quiet in a way that made Celeste’s heartbeat sound louder than it should. A single spotlight was aimed at the ivory chair where she sat, legs crossed at the ankles, palms resting on her lap. Across from her, journalist Marsha Langley, poised, gentle-eyed, with a reputation for empathy over scandal, waited for the cue.The red light blinked on. Live.Celeste exhaled slowly, her voice even but low when she began. “I’ve been asked why I chose to do this. The truth is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but there comes a point in one's life u6where silence protects no one except the people who hurt you.”A pause.“I’ve lived a lot of my life in front of cameras. But what people haven’t seen, what I’ve never allowed them to see, is what happened when they stopped rolling.”Marsha nodded, inviting her to continue.“I was eighteen when I lost my mother. It gutted me. She was my anchor... my voice of reason when the world spun too fast. When she died, I kept going like I didn’t feel it
The morning after the gala, Celeste woke to a phone buzzing insistently beside her on the nightstand. Damien was still asleep, arm draped loosely across her waist. She slipped out from under the covers and padded across the penthouse to the kitchen, answering the call as she poured coffee into a mug."Celeste," Mia's, voice said in a sharp tone, "three of your brand partners are pausing campaigns. One has pulled entirely."Celeste closed her eyes. "Because of the photo?""Not just the photo. There’s a new round of anonymous claims about Damien, whispers about how his acquisitions tanked a few indie companies, people claiming he forced them out of business, crushed them. It’s all over the backchannels. Someone is spreading this with precision.""Veronica or her brother.""Or someone paid by them. They’re not using any name, but it’s coordinated."Celeste leaned against the kitchen counter, mug warm in her hands. "Send me the full report.""Already did. Also..." Mia hesitated. "I know y
The stories didn’t come in a wave. They bled out, like pinpricks in the dark, precise, intentional, and slow enough to feel like paranoia until it was too late.One article accused Damien Sinclair of orchestrating the collapse of a boutique agency ten years ago, claiming he leveraged industry contacts to swallow its client roster, while another hinted at blackballed actors who’d mysteriously vanished after crossing him. The headlines didn’t scream scandal. It was subtle. Each one phrased just carefully enough to sound like truth, just speculative enough to avoid lawsuits.Damien skimmed them with the stillness of a predator observing its hunters."They’re smart," he muttered, tossing the tablet onto the breakfast counter in their penthouse. "There's nothing that can be directly traced back to Veronica, but her fingerprints are all over it."Celeste, still in her robe, sipped her coffee and studied him. “They’re painting you as a corporate hitman. Someone ruthless and unforgiving.”“Th
Three days later, Sinclair Media’s offices pulsed with restrained chaos.The audit teams, sleek, surgical investigators dressed in quiet black, moved through every floor. The mere sight of them had assistants panicking and executives pretending to look busy. Word had gotten out fast that nothing was off-limits. Personal emails, burner phones, old campaign records were all being pulled into the light.Celeste stood in Damien’s private conference room, staring at the glass wall that overlooked the bullpen. Her arms were crossed, but her focus was sharp.A knock came. Julian West stepped in, looking more cautious than usual. “They’re ready for you.”She turned to look in his direction. “The remaining board members,” he clarified. “Half have already ‘taken a leave of absence.’ And by leave, I mean they've bolted.”Celeste said nothing as she followed him down the hallway.Inside the smaller, more secure conference room, fiv