Chapter 2 - The Fallout in the Press
By midnight, the internet had melted down.
What was supposed to be the "Society Wedding of the Decade"—Grant Kingsley marrying his glamorous former executive assistant Sienna Vale—became the biggest public disaster in New York history. Guests who had witnessed Sienna throwing her bouquet at Grant’s head on the church steps leaked the footage to TikTok and X (formerly Twitter). Within hours, hashtags like #KingsleyCatastrophe, #TheBarrenLie, and #MorettiBaby were trending worldwide.
I sat in the VIP suite of New York Presbyterian Hospital, nursing a cup of chamomile tea, watching the carnage unfold on a wall-mounted flat-screen. Headlines blared across cable news networks:
WALL STREET SCANDAL: Billionaire Heir Grant Kingsley Humiliated at Altar After Ex-Wife Drops Pregnancy Bombshell.
WHO IS THE FATHER? Rumors Swirl Around Tech Mogul Dominic Moretti and Claire Kingsley’s Newborn.
THE GREAT DECEPTION: How Grant Kingsley Blamed His Ex for Infertility While Hiding His Own Medical Diagnosis.
My phone buzzed continuously. Unknown numbers, reporters from the Wall Street Journal and Page Six, former friends who had ghosted me after the divorce—they were all crawling out of the woodwork. I turned the device off and tossed it onto the nightstand.
The door swung open silently, and Dominic walked in, carrying a stack of legal documents and a fresh bouquet of white peonies. He had spent the last two hours on the phone with his PR team and corporate legal counsel.
“How are you holding up?” Dominic asked, setting the flowers down and pulling up a chair beside my bed.
“I’m surviving,” I said, looking down at my sleeping daughter, whom we had tentatively named Chloe. “Though I suspect Grant’s lawyers are drafting a lawsuit as we speak.”
“Let them try,” Dominic said coldly, a dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Grant’s family empire is built on public perception and board confidence. By the time my legal team finishes releasing his private medical records—which we legally acquired through subpoena during our corporate restructuring negotiations with his father’s firm—Grant won't even be able to get a loan to buy a cup of coffee.”
I looked at Dominic, tracing the sharp lines of his face. Three months ago, he was just my intimidating, aloof boss who occasionally checked in on me during my exhausting consulting hours. Now, he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me in a war against one of Manhattan's oldest dynasties.
“Why are you doing this, Dominic?” I asked quietly. “You didn't have to get involved in the phone call. You didn't have to let him know you were here.”
Dominic reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. His touch sent a warm, electric shock straight to my chest.
“Because from the moment I saw you crying in the breakroom, trying to hide your morning sickness while managing a multi-million-dollar portfolio, I knew two things,” Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. “First, that Grant Kingsley was a fool who didn't deserve a fraction of your strength. And second, that I would spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever made you feel small again.”
Before I could answer, a sharp knock echoed at the door.
May you like
Dominic’s expression instantly hardened back into the mask of the ruthless billionaire titan. “Come in.”
The door crept open to reveal a pale, disheveled Arthur Kingsley—Grant’s father and the patriarch of Kingsley Industries. And trailing right behind him was Grant himself, looking like a man who had walked straight through hell and back.
