Why didn’t Lawrence Westwood step up, even in private?
And how will fans react to the revelation that their anti-establishment rock god may be the heir to a media empire?
Make no mistake, readers—this story is only just getting started.
This isJake Armstrong, andyou heard it here first.
I read and re-read the article.
Fuck! That asshole.
The words blur and sharpen, blur and sharpen. Jake didn’t just hint—henamedWestwood.
My chair screeches back as I stand too fast, heart pounding, vision red.
How the hell did he get this?The clinic records were sealed. My mom made sure of it. Hell,Imade sure of it. We’ve been careful. Quiet. Anonymous.
I scroll again, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.No mention of her address, thank God. But he paints her like some tragic jazz muse, hiding in the shadows. He doesn’t know her. He doesn't know she still sings in dive bars because shewantsto, not because she has to. He doesn’t know that she raised me with nothing but what she earned and stubborn love. No handouts. No headlines. No Westwood.
And that line—
“...never received a cent of child support.”
I sink back down, suddenly cold. That part’s true.Every word.Westwood never paid. Never acknowledged me. Never even looked in my direction. Not when I scraped up lunch money, not when Mom got sick. Not when the band finally got traction.
And now? Now I’m tabloid gold. A legacy headline.
I rake a hand through my hair, my chest tightening with something I don’t want to name.
I didn’t want this life. I didn’t want his name.All I ever wanted was to benothing like him.
Now the world’s going to put us side by side and look for a resemblance.I decide to call Mom.
The phone rings once. Twice.She picks up on the third.
“Hey, baby.” Her voice is warm. Steady. But I can hear it—that faint tremor in the background. The one she always tries to hide.
“Hey,” I say, and for a second I forget everything else. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” A pause. “You know I’ve been through worse.”
That’s true. And still, my throat tightens.
“I should’ve warned you,” I say. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
“Ididsee it coming,” she replies calmly. “I just hoped we’d bought ourselves more time.”
I close my eyes, guilt pressing down like concrete. “I never wanted them to drag you into this. Or your name. You don’t deserve that.”
“They don’t know me,” she says. “They know a version Jake Armstrong painted with a vintage brush and a bit of melodrama. I’m not worried about gossip, Max. I’m worried aboutyou.”
