Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 14

Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 14: The Public Humiliation

“She paid them to kill us!” Chloe wept into the microphone, clutching the small boy tightly to her chest. “Clara Miller is a monster She stole my fiancé’s company and threw us on the street ”

The morning show host leaned forward, patting Chloe’s trembling hand. “And you have no access to your funds?”

“Nothing,” Chloe sobbed, wiping a tear from her cheek. “She froze everything. My son hasn’t eaten a warm meal in two days.”

I sat in the leather chair of the VIP green room, watching the flat-screen TV. Two hours had passed since the rain-soaked disaster outside the penthouse. Chloe had wasted no time. She hired a crisis PR team, dried her hair, and marched straight into a television studio to play the victim.

“Did she actually bring the kid to the studio?” I asked, pointing at the screen.

Elena, Sebastian’s assistant, stood by the door. She held a tablet against her chest. “The producers love a prop.”

“He looks terrified.”

“He’s five. He doesn’t understand why his mother is pinching his arm to make him cry.”

I raised an eyebrow. “She’s pinching him?”

“Watch her left hand.”

I focused on the screen. Sure enough, Chloe’s thumb and forefinger were clamped tight on the boy’s tricep, hidden perfectly behind his small back. The kid whimpered, and the camera immediately zoomed in on his tears.

“Disgusting,” I muttered.

“Effective, though,” Elena countered. “Social media is already trending with hashtags calling for your arrest.”

“Let them trend. It makes the fall harder.”

Elena tapped her earpiece. “Mr. Thorne is stepping up to the podium now.”

“Change the channel.”

The screen shifted instantly. The morning show vanished, replaced by a live feed of the press room just down the hall.

Flashes from dozens of cameras illuminated the podium. Sebastian stood tall, adjusting the microphone with effortless authority He didn’t look like a man trying to defend a client. He looked like an executioner holding an axe.

“We called this conference to address the slanderous claims made by Chloe Adams,” Sebastian announced. His voice commanded the room, leaving no space for interruption.

A reporter in the front row stood up. “Does your client deny hiring thugs to assault Julian Miller?”

“My client denies nothing, because she did nothing,” Sebastian answered smoothly. “Julian Miller trespassed on private property and attacked a building’s glass doors with an iron pipe. The police report is public record ”

“What about the child?” another journalist yelled. “Miss Adams claims Clara Miller is starving a five-year-old boy!”

Sebastian rested his hands on the edges of the podium. “Let’s discuss Miss Adams’ maternal devotion”

He pressed a button on a small remote. The massive projector behind him lit up.

“What is this?” a photographer shouted.

“Over the past three years, Chloe Adams has frequented the Plaza Hotel with six different men,” Sebastian stated “None of them were Julian Miller.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. A genuine, bright smile touched my lips. The sheer audacity of Julian’s mistress was finally on full display.

“Mr. Thorne!” a woman from the back shouted. “Are you saying Miss Adams is a prostitute?”

“I am saying she provided companionship in exchange for stolen funds,” Sebastian corrected. “You can label it however you see fit. She funded these excursions using Mr. Miller’s embezzled corporate accounts. A clear pattern of fraud.”

The press room erupted. Reporters shouted over each other, demanding copies of the hotel receipts.

“But what about the child?” another reporter demanded, waving a notepad. “Julian Miller has publicly claimed the boy as his own.”

Sebastian smiled. It was a terrifying, predatory expression.

“Julian Miller is a fool,” Sebastian announced.

He raised his hand to silence the crowd. The slide changed. A medical document appeared in high definition.

“This is a court-ordered DNA test from last week,” Sebastian explained. “Julian Miller is a zero percent biological match to the five- year-old boy.

The room went dead silent.

“Who is the father, then?” a journalist asked, frantically typing on a laptop.

“According to the database, the father is a fitness instructor currently residing in Miami,” Sebastian answered. “A man Miss Adams employed three months before her supposed miraculous pregnancy with Mr. Miller.”

A piercing shriek tore through the audio feed.

The camera panned to the back of the room. Chloe had sneaked in, likely planning to hijack the conference with her fake tears. Now, she stood frozen near the exit doors, her face pale and twisted with panic.

“That’s a lie!” Chloe screamed, shoving a cameraman out of her way. “You forged that!”

“The hospital administrator signed it yesterday,” Sebastian replied, his tone laced with absolute ice. “You’ve been extorting Julian Miller to raise another man’s child.”

Chloe dropped to her knees. She grabbed her hair, screaming obscenities at the cameras.

“Get her out of here,” Sebastian instructed the security team.

Guards moved in, hauling the thrashing woman through the exit. The reporters abandoned the podium, sprinting after Chloe to get a shot of her meltdown.

Elena handed me her tablet. “The precinct captain sent this over Thought you’d want to see

I took the device. The grainy security footage showed a police holding cell. Julian sat on a metal bench, staring at a small television mounted on the wall outside the bars.

He was watching Sebastian’s broadcast.

“Turn up the volume on the tablet,” I said.

Elena pressed a button. A faint, tinny audio feed buzzed to life.

The moment the DNA test hit the screen, Julian stood up. His mouth opened in a silent scream. He grabbed the metal bars of his cell and shook them violently.

“Guard!” Julian roared on the feed. “Let me out! I need to kill her!”

“He’s losing his mind,” Elena noted, crossing her arms.

“He just realized he gave up his entire life for a lie,” I replied.

I watched Julian pace the small cell like a trapped animal. He kicked the metal toilet bowl, screaming words I couldn’t hear over the

static.

“He threw away his career,” I whispered, stepping closer to the screen. “He threw away his house. He threw away his actual children For a Miami gym trainer’s offspring.”

“It’s poetic justice,” Elena offered.

“It’s a slaughter,” I corrected.

Julian spun around and drove his fist into the concrete wall. The impact shattered his knuckles. He slumped to the floor, clutching his bleeding hand, sobbing uncontrollably.

I handed the tablet back to Elena. The phantom blade that had been lodged in my spine for fifteen years finally slipped out. No bleeding. No pain. Just absolute, weightless freedom.

“Thank you, Elena,” I said.

“My pleasure. Do you need anything else?”

“No. I’m perfectly fine.”

Elena nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

I stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt. On the television, the remaining reporters were packing up their gear The conference was over.

The handle of the green room door clicked.

Sebastian stepped inside. He looked exhausted, yet completely wired. The pristine tailored suit he wore in the boardroom now looked

restrictive.

He reached behind him and turned the deadbolt.

The loud metallic snap echoed in the quiet room

I didn’t move My pulse picked up a sudden, erratic rhythm.

He didn’t speak He tossed a stack of briefing folders onto a nearby chair. He walked straight toward me, his dark eyes locked onto

mine

“You were magnificent out there,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He ignored the compliment. He reached up and yanked his silk tie, pulling it completely off his neck. He tossed it onto the floor

He backed me up. My shoes slid against the carpet until my shoulders hit the edge of the lighted vanity mirror.

Sebastian planted his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. He caged me in, leaving no room to escape. The heat rolling off his body was intense, burning through the thin fabric of my blouse.

“The trash is cleared,” Sebastian murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I looked up at him. The smell of cedar and adrenaline wrapped around me. My throat suddenly went dry.

“Yes, it is,” I answered.

He leaned in closer. His chest brushed against mine. His lips hovered just millimeters from the shell of my ear.

“Now,” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin, “can we talk about us?”