Brooke was more persistent than I expected.
She somehow tracked us down.
The heavy mahogany doors of the lounge swung open just as Phoenix and I were screaming the lyrics to a trashy club anthem into our microphones. Nearby, Kendall was directing three gorgeous male models to peel grapes for her.
Brooke stood frozen in the doorway.
Rain had soaked half her cheap white dress, plastering it to her skin. She looked like a fragile little flower battered by the storm, all trembling vulnerability and wet eyelashes.
It was a dramatic contrast to the beautiful disaster unfolding around us.
The live comments immediately flooded in again.
Live comment: OMG, the poor woman. Her biological kids are right there and they don’t even recognize her.
Live comment: Allera completely ruined those kids. Dragging them to a place like this proves she never cared about them.
Live comment: Brooke is crying. The maternal bond is about to kick in.
Brooke’s eyes instantly reddened further, the tears turning theatrical.
“Phoenix. Kendall.” Her voice trembled beautifully. “It’s Mom.”
She delivered that word like she deserved an Oscar.
The music cut off.
Phoenix stood frozen with a champagne bottle still in his hand. Kendall had half a grape in her mouth.
I said nothing. I just picked up a slice of watermelon and took a crisp bite.
When no one responded, Brooke clenched her jaw and rushed forward, throwing out her arms toward Phoenix.
“My sweet boy, Mommy missed you so much. I had my reasons back then, I swear—”
“Stop right there.”
Phoenix sidestepped with athletic precision and ducked behind my shoulder.
He looked Brooke up and down with open disgust.
“Who the hell are you, lady? You smell like cheap soap and poverty. Don’t touch my Balenciaga hoodie.”
Brooke froze.
She stared at her biological son in total disbelief. “I’m your real mother. Don’t you remember? You used to love the homemade pot roast I made for you when you were little.”
“I hate pot roast,” Phoenix said flatly. “That’s the old man’s favorite. I only eat wagyu and Alaskan king crab now. Can you afford that?”
Every trace of color drained from Brooke’s face.
Her fingers instinctively tightened around the frayed hem of her dress.
The comments spiraled.
Live comment: Why is this kid so materialistic?
Live comment: That evil stepmom brainwashed him.
Live comment: Brooke, show them the DNA test!
Brooke’s hands shook violently as she reached into her cheap canvas bag and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.
“This is the DNA test,” she said desperately. “You really are my flesh and blood.”
Kendall finally swallowed her grape.
Then she rose with lazy elegance, sauntered over to Brooke, and looked her up and down as if evaluating counterfeit merchandise.
“So what if you’re our biological mother?” Kendall asked, pinching her nose in exaggerated disgust. “Can you buy me a Birkin? Can you pay my favorite idol to massage my feet? If you can’t, why exactly are you here? To steal our inheritance?”
Brooke stared at her, dumbfounded.
This was clearly not how her reunion fantasy was supposed to go.
At that moment, Winston arrived.
He pushed through the club doors and took in the entire scene in one sweeping glance: his ex-wife sobbing in the doorway, his current wife lounging on a velvet sofa like a queen of vice, and his two heirs clinging to me while staring at their biological mother as if she were contagious.
“What the hell is going on?” he roared.
Brooke instantly threw herself toward him, nearly collapsing at his polished Italian shoes.
“Winston, you’re finally here,” she sobbed. “I don’t blame the children for rejecting me. It’s my fault I was gone so long. But how could Allera bring them somewhere like this? It’s going to ruin them.”
Classic.
A guilt trip wrapped in a direct attack on my parenting.
Winston scanned the room, taking in the empty bottles, the microphones, the male models, and the general atmosphere of glorious moral decay.
Then he turned to me.
“Is this how you raise my children?”
I calmly wiped my fingers with a wet napkin.
“What?” I asked. “The billionaire CEO disapproves? I’m using your unlimited funds to buy your children pure, unfiltered joy.”
I gestured lazily toward the lineup of men.
“And I’m helping your daughter develop standards so she doesn’t get tricked by some polished red flag in a custom suit.”
Winston looked like he might actually choke.
The live-feed comments, however, were beginning to shift.
Live comment: Okay, wait. The evil stepmom is kind of making points.
Live comment: Allera is serving facts right now.
Live comment: Brooke crying and Winston looking useless is killing me.
Winston exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Everyone is going home,” he said.
I shrugged and stood. “Fine.”
If Brooke wanted to come back into my house and start a war, I was more than willing to let her.