Others called me a hero, a role model, a woman who refused to be silenced.
I did not care what they called me.
I had spent three years being called nothing, being ignored, being erased.
Now I was being seen. And that was what mattered.
Three days after the wedding, I received an unexpected visitor at my hotel.
Julian Sterling.
He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was uncombed, and he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual tailored suits.
He looked human for the first time since I had known him.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
I looked at him for a long moment, then stepped aside to let him in.
The children were in the other room with their nanny. I did not want them to see this.
Julian sat on the couch, his hands clasped between his knees.
“Are they really mine?” he asked.
I pulled out my phone, opened a folder, and showed him the genetic testing results I had done when the children were born.
Ninety-nine point nine percent probability that Julian Sterling was the father.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
“Why did you not tell me?” he asked.
I laughed bitterly.