All Chapters of The Fathers of My Child?: Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

#Rico’s POV#It’s almost funny, if it didn’t feel like someone was slowly wringing the life out of me.I’m sitting on a stained, lopsided bed in this motel room on the Jersey outskirts, my last pennies bleeding away in the form of rent for four cracked walls and a tweaking air conditioner that smells like mold. I don’t even have the ego left to order a proper meal; been living on gas station sandwiches and whatever’s left in the vending machine downstairs. But I still have enough ego to keep from calling Xavier. He’d help in a second, I know that. And I’d rather starve here than hear him sigh and tell me I told you so.The screen of my phone is dim in my palm, but the noise is loud in my head. This story… this cursed story… is trending again. Not just trending…. everywhere. I scroll, jaw locked, watching the same clip over and over.The hallway fight.The IdealHome Clinic, that white corridor with its harsh lighting and walls that echoed like a church. But this version? This version i

#Joel’s POV#The cold bites harder up here than anywhere else in the villa. The rooftop balcony has always been my place to think, to keep my head above water when everything else tries to drag me under. But lately… it’s felt like I’m just standing here, waiting for the tide to swallow me. The papers in my hand crumple slightly as my grip tightens. Two years. Two years I clung to this will like it was gospel. Two years I let it dictate every single thing I did to Dorothy… every cruelty I justified, every manipulation I told myself was necessary. All because I believed my father’s voice on paper mattered more than her voice in real life. And now? Now it’s just a forged piece of trash. A sick joke someone cooked up to keep me in line, and I was dumb enough to play the part.Benedict Holdings is on the verge of being sold off in pieces. The company my father worshipped more than his own family is about to belong to strangers. And what am I doing? Standing here, laughing like a lunatic.

#Joel’s POV#The downtown café is already buzzing when I walk in, but it’s the quiet kind of buzz; low conversation, the occasional clink of ceramic cups, the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter. It’s not a place of power, not like the glass-walled boardrooms I’ve spent the last decade in. This is neutral ground. It smells like roasted coffee and something sweet baking in the back, but it also smells like change.Kel is already here, typing furiously on his tablet, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He looks up when he sees me, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens. “You sure about this?” he says before I’ve even sat down.“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” I tell him, pulling out a chair.Elias arrives moments later, shaking off his coat. He’s one of the only board members I can actually stand as he's not afraid to tell me when I’m being an ass. He greets Kel, then me, his eyes searching mine like he’s looking for a last-minute sign I’ve changed my mind.“Let’s do t

#Paulina’s POV#The curtains in this hotel room are heavy enough to block out the sun, but not the heat. Mexico smells different; salt from the ocean, spice from street vendors, the faint perfume of flowers that still somehow seep through the concrete. I’ve been here for two weeks, and every morning I wake up with the same thought: this is pathetic.It’s pathetic that I’m living like this, checking in under fake names, switching hotels every few days, always asking for a room with a view I don’t look at. Pathetic that I’m too scared to go out without sunglasses and a hat pulled so far down I can barely see the street. Pathetic that I’m surviving on room service and whatever trash reality TV happens to be on.And it’s miserable that no one is calling me.My parents, my own parents, have stopped returning my calls. The last time they picked up, I was crying so hard my words tripped over themselves, telling them about what the Hernandez family had done, about how the public now sees me,

#Dorothy's POV#The dawn feels like a secret I shouldn’t be awake to witness. Pale light spills over the balcony tiles, cool against my bare feet. I’m wrapped in Joel’s oversized cardigan, holding a warm mug of tea between my palms. The air tastes clean, like it rained last night, though I didn’t hear it.My eyes roam over the quiet garden. The villa still looks too big for me, like a life I don’t fully believe is mine. And yet, here I am, sipping tea in the early hours, alive and breathing and… known. I never thought I’d be known like this… through words on a screen. My blog is still blowing up. The numbers aren’t what move me; it’s the comments. Women I’ve never met, telling me I made them feel less alone. Survivors who found pieces of themselves in my sentences. Some of them write paragraphs, others just a single line, but every single one digs under my ribs. I’ve read them so much I could quote them.I blink hard, because tears this early feel ridiculous. But I can’t help it. I kee