Chapter 6 - The Press Conference
The ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel was packed to capacity with hundreds of reporters, flashbulbs popping in continuous flashes. At the center of the dais sat Julian Sterling, looking appropriately weathered and somber, flanked by Victor Morretti and Elena, who wore a modest black dress designed to project innocence and mourning.
""Ladies and gentlemen,"" Julian began, his voice quivering with practiced grief as he leaned into the microphone. ""I stand before you today not as the CEO of Sterling Capital, but as a betrayed husband and a terrified father. For three years, my wife Clara hid her true identity and her immense family fortune from me. I thought we were partners, building a life from modest beginnings. But when our marital tensions arose, she used her billionaire father’s private security to physically assault me and cast me out of my own home.""
Murmurs rippled through the press corps. The reporters scribbled furiously on their tablets.
""She is mentally erratic,"" Julian continued, warming up to his performance, his voice rising in righteous indignation. ""She is using our unborn child as a bargaining chip to destroy my family's seventy-year business heritage. This morning, I filed an emergency petition for sole custody of our baby to ensure the child is raised in a safe, emotionally stable environment, away from the predatory Vance dynasty.""
Elena dabbed at an imaginary tear with a lace handkerchief, nodding in solemn agreement.
""Are you saying the Vance family orchestrated this marriage from the start, Mr. Sterling?"" a senior journalist shouted from the third row.
""I am saying,"" Julian proclaimed, raising his chin, ""that Clara Vance is unfit to be a mother, and I will fight with every drop of blood in my body to protect my child from her—""
The heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom banged open.
The entire room fell into dead silence. Every camera spun around on its tripod in unison. Walking down the center aisle, flanked by two towering private security officers, was Clara Vance. She wore an immaculate, floor-length sapphire coat over her maternity dress, her posture sovereign and untouchable. Beside her walked the state’s Attorney General, accompanied by two federal marshals in uniform.
Julian’s voice dried up in his throat. The microphone caught his sharp, terrified inhalation, broadcasting it across every major television network.
May you like
Clara did not stop until she reached the base of the stage. She looked up at Julian, her expression one of utter indifference.
""Julian,"" Clara said, her voice effortlessly cutting through the cavernous hall without a microphone. ""You forgot to mention the offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands you opened using my forged signature.""
