The Boss's Secret Baby

Chapter 15: Ink

Chapter 15: Ink The Tattler hit the newsstands at 6 a.m. By 6:20, Priya was calling. "Don't look," she said, which was how Maya knew to look immediately. The headline filled her phone screen in thick black type: THE CEO'S SECRET FAMILY — Cross Heir Hidden for Years? Below it, the photograph: Adrian at the restaurant last year, Leo on his lap, both laughing over a shared dessert, Adrian's hand cupped around the back of Leo's head with a tenderness that made Maya's throat close even now. The article was worse. It didn't quite accuse — tabloids never quite accused. It insinuated, in that greasy way: a "love child," a "hushed-up paternity," a "Brooklyn single mother" (as if that were an indictment), and — the knife slid in smoothest here — questions about "what else the mighty Cross Enterprises might be hiding." "They're calling Leo 'the secret heir,'" Priya said, furious. "As if he's a scandal and not a kid who loses his mind over dinosaur chicken nuggets." Maya stood in the kitchen, the morning light suddenly too bright. Leo was in his room, singing tunelessly to his dinosaurs about kindergarten. Adrian had already left for the office. "How bad?" Maya asked. "Bad enough that marketing is getting calls. Bad enough that two of your initiative donors emailed 'concerned.'" Priya's voice dropped. "Maya. This isn't random. Somebody fed them the photo. Somebody's paying for the insinuation." "I know." Maya closed her eyes. "Vane." "You don't know it's Vane." "I know it's somebody who wants Adrian bleeding in public." She opened her eyes. "Priya — Leo's school. If any reporter—" "Already handled. I called Ms. Rivera myself. No press on school grounds, no photos of minors, she'll call security." A beat. "Maya. Are you okay?" Maya looked toward Leo's room, where the singing had stopped — he was listening, she realized, the way kids always were, quiet and absorbing everything. "I'm fine," she said, and went to her son. Leo was sitting on his bed, dinosaur in his lap, eyes huge. "Mama. Are we in trouble?" Oh, baby. She sat beside him and pulled him close, breathing in crayons and sleep. "No, my love. We're not in trouble. Somebody wrote a mean story with a picture of you and Dada, because mean stories sell papers. But you know what?" "What?" "You and Dada look really happy in that picture." She tickled him until he giggled. "That's the truest part of the whole thing." He brightened. "Can I bring the picture to school? For show and tell?" "Absolutely not," she said, kissing his curls, and he laughed, and for a moment it was just morning again. But at drop-off, Ms. Rivera pulled her aside, her kind face troubled. "Maya. Mason told the class that Leo's daddy 'bought him from a store.' I spoke to Mason's mother. She... she reads the Tattler." Maya's hands curled. "Thank you for telling me." "We're handling it. But —" Ms. Rivera hesitated. "There was a man here yesterday. Asking questions. About Leo. About you. He said he was writing a profile of 'prominent families.' I didn't tell him anything, but Maya — he knew Leo's full name." Ice moved down Maya's spine. "What did he look like?" "Thin. Polite. Grey suit." Ms. Rivera frowned. "He left a card. Some foundation name I'd never heard of." Maya took the card with steady fingers. No name. Just a number. Her mind raced — Vane's man, here, at Leo's school, asking about her baby. The fury that rose in her was so pure it felt like light. She called Adrian from the car. "They're asking about Leo at his school." Silence. Then Adrian's voice, cold as a drawn blade: "I'm calling Ray. And Maya —" a breath — "I'm sorry. This is my world doing this. My name. My enemies." "Stop." Her voice was fierce. "He's my son too, and your name is his name, and we don't do guilt in this family. We do plans." She gripped the wheel, her knuckles white. "What's the plan, Adrian?" Another silence — shorter this time. When he spoke, the CEO was gone and the father was there, and the father was far more dangerous. "We find out who the man in the grey suit works for," Adrian said. "And then we go to war." "Good." Maya's eyes were bright with something that wasn't tears. "Because I'm done being the story, Adrian. From now on, I'm writing it." At the Foundation, the fallout was quieter but colder. A reporter cornered Maya by the elevators — young, hungry, smelling blood. "Mrs. Cross! Is it true you were a catering waitress when you met your husband?" Maya looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled — the same smile she'd given Marcus Hale on a sidewalk eighteen months ago. "I was," she said. "I poured champagne. I worked hard. And if you're implying there's shame in that, you should meet my son. He thinks working hard is the whole point." She stepped into the elevator. "Off the record? You're embarrassing yourself." The doors closed. Maya leaned against the wall, shaking. Brave in public, trembling in private — that was the job now. That afternoon, in an office with no name on the door, Elias Vane read the Tattler piece twice, smiled, and set it aside. "Phase one," he said to Sutter. "The beautiful thing about ink, Sutter, is that it doesn't wash off. Not from newsprint. Not from a five-year-old's reputation." "And phase two?" "Are you sure about Vivienne?" Sutter asked. "She's... fragile. If she breaks—" "She won't break." Vane's voice was certain. "She's been broken for eighteen months. I'm simply giving her a shape for the pieces." He turned a photograph over — Vivienne at the gala, pale and watchful. "Desperation is the most reliable fuel I know, Sutter. It never runs out." Vane opened the cream-colored file to a page marked V. CROSS — MURRAY HILL. "Phase two," he said, "is family."