The first sound my premature twins heard outside their incubators was the thud of a legal folder against my knees. The second was my husband stating they were too broken to be worth ruining his future.

As court adjourned, the courtroom double doors swung open, letting in the muffled roar of the press corps waiting in the hallway. Marcus was led out first by his court-appointed attorney, who was desperately trying to shield his client’s face from the flashing cameras. It was no use. The headline writers already had their story: “The Architectural Scam Artist Who Dumped Billionaire Heiress in NICU.”

I walked out moments later, my arm linked with my grandfather’s. I didn't hide my face. I held my head high, wearing a sleek, ivory designer suit that symbolized my return to the world I had stepped away from.

A reporter thrust a microphone toward me. "Miss Sterling! How does it feel to face the man who abandoned you and your children?"

I stopped walking and looked directly into the camera lens. I wanted Marcus to hear this wherever he ended up watching the evening news.

"When someone tries to bury you in the dark," I said clearly, my voice carrying over the chatter of the press, "they forget that seeds grow best in the dirt. My children are not burdens. They are the future of the Sterling legacy. And as for my ex-husband, the law has spoken, and justice has only just begun."

Across the courtyard, I caught a final glimpse of Chloe. She was standing near a bus stop, holding a cheap canvas tote bag containing her remaining clothes. She had avoided jail time by turning state’s witness, but she had lost everything else. High society had blacklisted her; her name was toxic. She looked at me with bitter, regretful eyes before turning away and stepping onto a city bus, fading into the anonymity she had tried so desperately to escape.