What happened next was a blur. The lobby erupted into a cacophony of shouting and a sudden, chaotic rush. It was as if I’d blinked and a mob materialized in front of me—flashing cameras, thrusting microphones, and cell phones held high. I tightened my grip on Anna’s hand, terrified she’d be torn away in the crush.
“Is it true, Dr. Turner? You’re a father?” one journalist yelled.
“Is this one of your daughters? Weren’t there two?” shouted another.
“Do you plan to finally acknowledge them after all this time?”
“Is the mother a Hollywood star?”
“Sources say you had an affair with a former model! Is she the mother?”
“Is she a nobody? Is that why you thought you could get away with abandoning her?”
The barrage of questions was overwhelming, a dizzying whirlwind of accusations and flashbulbs. I stood frozen, completely unable to form a single word in my defense.
Maybe I should have been used to it by now. As the son of a famous actress, my brothers and I had grown up with a certain level of media exposure. But of the three of us, I’d always handled it the worst, going out of my way to avoid the spotlight.
“I didn’t abandon anyone,” was all I could muster, the accusation leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
It was true—I never wanted children. The thought of Eleanor being pregnant years ago had filled me with pure panic, and yes, I would have been terrified if I’d known the truth back then.
But I would never have run from my responsibilities. I would never have beenthatkind of man.
“So, you’ve registered your daughters?” a woman shouted, igniting another volley.
“Have you been hiding them all this time?”
“What is the mother’s name?”
“Hey, little girl,” one reporter called out to Anna directly. “What’s your mom’s name?”
In an instant, every microphone swiveled toward her. I pulled Anna behind me, a futile attempt to shield her from the flock of vultures now surrounding us completely.
“It’s Rory!” Anna cried out. Before I could react, she slipped from my grasp and darted through the crowd, screaming, “Rory!”
My eyes followed her, and a wave of sheer relief washed over me as I spotted Aurora. The two sisters crashed into a tight hug.
Aurora was standing next to a woman. As if on cue, the reporters abandoned me and surged toward this new target. I followed, stopping a few feet away as one of them demanded her name.
“Evelyn García…” she answered, looking utterly bewildered.
Evelyn García.
It took my brain a second to place her. The Spanish translator. Then I recognized her face—she was a friend of Camila, my brother Michael’s wife. We’dbeen briefly introduced at their wedding reception a couple of weeks ago. We hadn’t exchanged more than a polite “nice to meet you,” but I remembered thinking she was strikingly pretty. Long dark hair, hazel-green eyes, and olive skin.
The same journalist pressed on. “So, you’re the mother?”
“Whose mother?” Evelyn asked, her confusion deepening.
My mind raced. I scanned the crowded lobby and my blood ran cold—standing there, watching it all, were the majority owners of the New York Center Hospital.
I couldn’t let this destroy my career. I didn’t want to drag an innocent woman into this, but Evelyn was a friend of the family. Surely, that meant she was trustworthy.
I had to hope so, because my next words were out of my mouth before she could say another thing.
“Yes, it’s her,” I declared loudly. “She’s the mother of my daughters.”
The flashbulbs erupted. The shouting intensified.
