Chapter 3 - THE PATERNITY PETITION Maya filed the protective-order request at 8:06 Monday morning.
At 9:15, Sebastian’s attorneys requested voluntary DNA testing.
At 10:40, an entertainment-news website published photographs from The Grand Oak.
The headline read:
BILLIONAIRE SEBASTIAN CARTER CONFRONTS SECRET TRIPLETS IN CHICAGO RESTAURANT.
By noon, my name was trending.
Little Harvest Kitchen’s phone rang continuously.
Some callers wanted interviews.
Some accused me of hiding children for money.
One woman called me a hero for raising triplets alone.
Another said women like me were the reason wealthy men could not trust anyone.
I instructed my employees not to respond.
Then I locked myself in my office and watched five years of private pain become public entertainment.
The photographs were taken from across the restaurant.
In one, Sebastian stood over our table while Ethan positioned himself between us.
In another, Olivia stared at the children.
The image had captured the moment she realized the timeline matched.
Someone had sold the pictures within hours.
I knew exactly who benefited.
At one o’clock, Marcus Delaney, the owner of The Grand Oak, called.
“Hannah, I want you to know I didn’t release those photographs.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m also not canceling our meeting.”
Relief loosened something in my chest.
“You’ve seen the articles?”
“I have.”
“And you’re still considering Little Harvest?”
“I hired you to help feed children, not to explain your divorce.”
For the first time that day, I smiled.
“Thank you.”
“However, the school board is nervous. Your proposal has become politically complicated.”
“Because my children may have a wealthy father?”
“Because three board members received anonymous emails claiming your company falsified nutritional data.”
My smile disappeared.
“That is false.”
“I know. Your records were independently verified.”
“Can you forward the emails to Maya?”
“I already did.”
After the call ended, I walked into the kitchen.
Fourteen employees looked up.
They had built Little Harvest with me.
Some had joined when we operated from a borrowed church basement with two ovens and one refrigerator.
Now we prepared thousands of meals each week.
I refused to let the Carter family destroy what we had created.
“We continue working,” I said. “No one speaks to reporters. Any unusual email, phone call, or visitor comes directly to me.”
My operations manager, June Park, raised her hand.
“Does this mean we’re going to have billionaire security guards?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t trust men who wear sunglasses indoors.”
Nervous laughter moved through the room.
At three, Maya arrived carrying a legal pad and enough anger for both of us.
“The media leak came from a public-relations account connected to Bennett Strategic Communications.”
“Olivia’s family company.”
“Yes. We cannot prove she personally authorized it yet.”
“And the anonymous school-board emails?”
“Sent through an encrypted service, but the wording resembles language used in Carter Group crisis plans.”
“She is attacking my business.”
“She is creating a narrative before the DNA results.”
“What narrative?”
“That you concealed the children, manipulated a public encounter, and are preparing to demand money.”
I leaned against my desk.
“I have never asked Sebastian for a dollar.”
“Facts are less important than repetition in a public scandal.”
Maya opened her folder.
“There is more.”
A process server appeared at the kitchen entrance.
The timing was almost theatrical.
He handed me a thick envelope.
Hannah Monroe, you have been served.
Maya took the documents before I could open them.
Her eyes moved across the first page.
“What is it?”
“A petition to establish parentage.”
“That was expected.”
“Yes.”
She turned the page.
Then her expression changed.
“What?”
“Sebastian is requesting temporary visitation.”
My stomach tightened.
“How soon?”
“He is asking for an expedited hearing.”
“After promising he would not contact the children.”
“He may claim that formal visitation is different from unauthorized contact.”
“I don’t care what he calls it.”
Maya kept reading.
“He is not requesting removal from your home. No overnights. He proposes child specialists, supervised introductions, and a neutral location.”
“That sounds reasonable because expensive lawyers wrote it.”
“It is more restrained than most petitions filed by men in his position.”
“Are you defending him?”
“No. I’m warning you that a judge may view the request favorably if DNA confirms parentage.”
I walked to the window.
Five years ago, I had wanted Sebastian to know.
I had called until my throat hurt.
I had written letters with hands swollen from medication.
I had believed that if he learned the babies were alive, he would come.
Now he knew.
And every instinct in my body wanted to build a wall around the children.
“You once wanted him involved,” Maya said quietly.
“That was before I knew he could go five years without looking.”
“He believed they were dead.”
“He also believed I vanished.”
“Yes.”
“And he accepted it.”
Maya did not argue.
“Can we stop visitation?”
“Temporarily, perhaps. Permanently, unlikely, unless he poses a danger.”
“He is surrounded by dangerous people.”
“Then we document them.”
She turned another page.
“His petition includes a sworn statement.”
“I don’t want to read it.”
“You should.”
She handed it to me.
I read.
I was informed that the pregnancy ended in fetal loss. I believed my former wife had left the United States following the dissolution of our marriage. I did not know the children existed until January 14. Upon learning of their possible existence, I requested independent DNA testing and agreed not to contact the children without their mother’s permission. I acknowledge that my absence, regardless of cause, has affected them. I seek an opportunity to establish the truth and, if they are my children, to earn an appropriate place in their lives.
The final sentence hurt more than I expected.
Not claim.
Not take.
Earn.
I reminded myself that attorneys understood language.
Maya studied me.
“What are you thinking?”
“That he knows exactly what a judge wants to hear.”
“Probably.”
“And maybe he means it.”
“Possibly.”
“I hate possibly.”
“Family law is built on possibly.”
My phone rang.
The triplets’ school.
I answered immediately.
“This is Hannah.”
“Ms. Monroe, this is Principal Lewis. The children are safe.”
Every parent knew those words were never followed by good news.
“What happened?”
“A woman came to the front office claiming she had authorization to pick them up.”
My knees weakened.
“Who?”
“She identified herself as their aunt.”
“They don’t have an aunt in Chicago.”
“She presented copies of their birth certificates and a notarized letter.”
“What name did she give?”
“Olivia Bennett.”
The room tilted.
“Did she see the children?”
“No. Our staff followed your restricted-release instructions. Security escorted her outside.”
“Where is she now?”
“She left before the police arrived.”
Maya was already writing.
“Did you preserve the security video?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do not release it to anyone except the police or my attorney.”
“We understand.”
I hung up.
Maya immediately called the detective assigned to our protective-order request.
“She forged a pickup authorization,” I said.
“If it is forged.”
“I never signed anything.”
“We will prove that.”
My phone rang again.
This time, Sebastian’s name appeared.
Maya shook her head.
“Do not answer.”
I declined the call.
A voicemail notification followed.
Maya activated the speaker.
Sebastian’s voice filled the office.
“Hannah, I just learned Olivia went to the school. I did not send her. I have suspended her access to all Carter properties and accounts. My security team is locating her, but you should contact the police immediately. I am not asking you to trust me. I am telling you I had nothing to do with this.”
Maya stopped the recording.
“His attorneys probably told him to say that.”
“Do you think he sent her?”
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
“Why not?”
“Because filing a careful petition and attempting an amateur school pickup on the same day makes no strategic sense.”
“Olivia is losing control.”
“Yes.”
A text message from Sebastian appeared.
I have security footage from my penthouse showing her taking documents from my office last night. I am sending it to your attorney.
Maya’s email chimed moments later.
A video attachment arrived.
We watched Olivia enter Sebastian’s office at 2:13 a.m.
She opened a cabinet.
Photographed files.
Removed an envelope.
Then she approached the security camera and looked directly into it.
She knew it was recording.
Before leaving, she held up a handwritten note.
The message was visible for three seconds.
Hannah stole five years from you. Don’t let her steal the rest.
Maya paused the video.
“That was meant for him.”
“No,” I whispered.
The note was positioned perfectly for the camera.
Olivia had wanted all of us to see it.
She had not gone to the school to take the children.
She had gone to frighten me.
To make Sebastian look dangerous.
To convince me that allowing him into the triplets’ lives would put them at risk.
And it was working.
Another email appeared from an unknown address.
The subject line contained four words.
LISTEN BEFORE YOU TRUST HIM.
Attached was an audio file.
Maya disconnected my computer from the company network before opening it on an isolated device.
A man’s voice came through the speakers.
Sebastian’s voice.
“She and the babies are a complication. Handle it before I return.”
The recording ended.
I stared at Maya.
She replayed it.
Same voice.
Same controlled rhythm.
Same slight pause before the word complication.
“That sounds like him,” I said.
“It does.”
“Could it be edited?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be real?”
Maya met my eyes.
“Yes.”
The first hospital recording proved Olivia lied.
But this new recording suggested something worse.
What if Sebastian had known?
What if he had not been deceived at all?
May you like
What if the man standing outside my apartment had not come looking for lost children?
What if he had come because the secret he helped bury had finally returned?
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