Instead, she stopped mid-stride, turned deliberately, and faced the sea of flashing lights.
“I’m Evelyn Monroe,” she said, her voice calm, steady, unwavering. “And these are Victor’s forgotten children.”
The terminal erupted.
Gasps. Shutters clicking. Even the announcements seemed to pause.
“Evelyn, don’t—”
Victor tried to move toward her, but security stepped in. He reached out.
Desperate.
But caught nothing.
Evelyn looked him in the eye, then turned to the guards.
“Please escort me and my children out.”
They obeyed.
Not for the billionaire.
But for the woman whose pain commanded silence.
“Evelyn, let me explain.”
She stepped close, her voice low, just for him.
“They’ll remember the man who never picked them up,” she whispered. “Not the one who carried her bag.”
Then she was gone.
The children disappeared with her, swallowed by a crowd of cameras and curiosity.
Victor stood paralyzed.
Reporters swarmed. “Mr. Monroe, do you deny paternity? Is your company at risk?”
But Victor barely heard them.
He turned.
Nadia was gone.
No cream dress. No trembling hands.
Just her handbag. Forgotten on the floor.
