The nurse’s pen hovered over the crisp, white government form like a bird suspended in mid-air. Her hand was shaking so badly that the blue ink threatened to splatter across the immaculate paper. She looked up, her terrified eyes darting from Luca Moretti’s cold, unblinking gaze to the heavily armed, broad-shouldered bodyguard standing like a stone statue behind him.

When the black Maybach pulled up to the private judges' entrance, a swarm of paparazzi immediately surged forward like a pack of starving wolves. Camera flashes popped like strobe lights, and shouted questions echoed off the stone steps.

“Mr. Moretti! Is it true you adopted a child with an unknown woman?”

“Mr. Moretti! Is Chloe Moretti your biological heir or a corporate stunt?”

Luca didn't even blink. He stepped out of the car with the calm, immovable grace of a king surveying his kingdom. He immediately turned back, opening my door and extending his hand.

I took a deep breath, smoothing down my sharp, tailored black Armani pantsuit—one of half a dozen that had magically appeared in my closet courtesy of Luca’s personal stylist—and stepped out into the blinding sea of cameras, holding my head high.

Security guards formed an impenetrable wedge around us, escorting us past the media frenzy and through the heavy oak doors of Courtroom 4B.

Inside, Derek Morrison was already sitting at the plaintiff’s table. He looked like absolute hell. His dark hair was unwashed and messy, deep purple bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, and his expensive suit looked like he had slept in it for three days straight. Standing behind him was his high-priced lawyer, sweating profusely and flipping frantically through a thick binder of emergency motions.

Brittany wasn't there. Rumor had it her father had packed her off to a private wellness retreat in Switzerland to escape the collapsing stock prices of his textile empire.

As Luca and I took our seats at the defense table, Derek turned around. His eyes locked onto mine, burning with a mix of pure hatred, desperation, and utter bewilderment.

"Emma," Derek hissed, half-rising from his chair before his lawyer yanked him back down by the sleeve. "You're going to pay for this. You and your sugar daddy. I want a DNA test! I demand a court-ordered DNA test right now! That kid is mine!"

Before I could open my mouth, Judge Vance—a notoriously stern, no-nonsense jurist with decades on the bench—slapped his gavel down with a sharp, echoing crack.

"Order! Order in this courtroom!" Judge Vance roared, glaring over his half-moon spectacles down at Derek. "Mr. Morrison, you are on the verge of being held in contempt before we even enter opening statements. Sit down and shut your mouth."

Derek swallowed hard, slumping back into his leather chair.

"Your Honor," Derek’s lawyer stood up, adjusting his tie with a trembling hand. "We are filing an emergency petition to invalidate the birth certificate issued at St. Jude's Hospital three days ago. My client, Mr. Derek Morrison, maintains a credible claim to biological paternity and asserts that fraud, coercion, and undue influence were exerted by the defendant, Mr. Luca Moretti, to bypass standard legal verification."

Judge Vance frowned, turning his gaze toward our table. He looked at Luca, whose face remained an unreadable mask of cold marble.

"Mr. Moretti," Judge Vance said, his voice deep and gravelly. "How does the defense respond to the motion for a mandatory court-supervised paternity test?"

Luca didn't flinch. He stood up slowly, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate elegance.

"Your Honor," Luca began, his rich, resonant voice filling every corner of the courtroom. "We do not object to a paternity test. In fact, we welcome it."

Derek’s lawyer let out an audible sigh of relief, exchanging a triumphant glance with Derek.

"However," Luca continued, his voice dropping an octave as his slate-gray eyes fixed on Derek, "before we waste the court's time and taxpayer money on a genetic comparison between Mr. Morrison and my daughter, I would like to submit a series of exhibits into the official record."

Luca signaled to his lead counsel, who stepped forward and placed a thick stack of manila folders onto the judge's bench.

"Exhibit A," Luca said smoothly, "is a certified transcript of financial wire transfers originating from Morrison & Sterling corporate accounts, funneling over two million dollars in embezzled funds into offshore shell companies controlled by Mr. Morrison’s former mistress, Brittany Hale."

Derek went from pale to ghostly white. His lawyer grabbed the edge of the table, his jaw dropping.

"Exhibit B," Luca continued, walking slowly toward the center of the courtroom, "is a series of sworn affidavits from three separate medical professionals confirming that Mr. Morrison explicitly and publicly renounced paternity in the hospital hallway three days ago, refusing to sign the birth certificate or acknowledge the child."

"Objection! Irrelevant!" Derek’s lawyer shrieked, jumping to his feet. "This has nothing to do with biological paternity!"

"Sit down, counselor," Judge Vance snapped, already flipping open the first manila folder. The judge’s eyes scanned the pages, and as he read further, his expression darkened into a thunderous scowl.

"And finally, Your Honor," Luca said, turning to face the judge directly, "Exhibit C. A formal, legally binding relinquishment of all parental rights, moral claims, and future association, signed, dated, and notarized by Mr. Morrison himself three weeks prior to the birth, during a consultation with his personal divorce attorney regarding an entirely different matter—proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Morrison planned to abandon the child regardless of biological verification."