There was a picture of me from five years ago, taken outside my university lab in Chicago.

Beside it was a professional headshot of Blake, looking stern and wealthy.

The article claimed I had kept the boys hidden as a financial insurance policy.

It painted me as a calculated blackmailer who kept three sons from their father to maximize a future divorce settlement.

“It’s already live,” I said, showing him the screen. “Look at what they’re saying about me.”

Blake grabbed his own phone and dialed a number.

“Get PR on the line,” he snapped into his receiver. “No, don’t draft a statement. I’m doing it myself.”

He hung up and looked at me.

“We are landing in Chicago in two hours,” he said. “We will stream it live from my office at the private terminal.”

We arrived at the airport within twenty minutes.

The jet was already idling on the tarmac, its engines whining in the cold morning air.

We boarded in silence.

As the plane climbed over the gray skyline of Manhattan, I opened my laptop.