My Billionaire Wife Called My Ex-Wife’s Twins "Nobodies"—Until A 13-Year-Old Photo Froze The Entire Ballroom!
Chapter 1 - The Face in the Frame
The man standing beside Victoria in the photograph was Marcus Vance.
My late elder brother.
The brother who supposedly died in a private aircraft crash in the Swiss Alps six months before my divorce was finalized.
In the high-resolution projection, Marcus stood outside a private clinical laboratory in Zurich, handing Victoria an unsealed manila envelope stamped with an embossed red seal: *DNA Diagnostics International.*
The date stamp glowing in the corner read November 14, 2013.
Two days before Victoria placed the doctored infidelity dossier on my desk and watched me sign Elena’s eviction order.
Beside me, Victoria’s breath caught with a wet, ragged gasp.
"Julian," she whispered, her manicured fingers clawing into the lapel of my tuxedo. "It’s a deepfake. Someone hacked the audio-visual feed to sabotage Preston’s academic credentials."
I didn't look at her.
My eyes tracked the boys standing at the edge of the stage.
Leo didn't flinch beneath the stadium lighting. He reached into his blazer pocket, pulled out an identical unsealed envelope, and handed it directly to the host.
"Mr. Sterling," Leo said, his youthful voice amplified cleanly across the eight-hundred-seat auditorium. "Check the secondary registry barcode."
The host, an executive director of the national foundation, scanned the paper on his wireless tablet.
The massive wall display behind the stage flickered once, clearing the image of Marcus Vance and replacing it with a certified forensic laboratory certificate.
The document bore the official watermarked emblem of the Department of Justice Medical Examiner’s Office.
Primary donor: Julian Vance.
Offspring match: Leo Holloway and Ethan Holloway.
Probability of paternity: 99.98 percent.
Victoria lunged forward, her diamond bracelets clattering violently against the metal railing of the VIP mezzanine.
"Turn off the projector!" she screamed, her voice cracking across the dead-silent hall. "Security, clear the stage! These are unauthorized minors disrupting a private corporate benefit!"
Two armed security guards in black suits moved toward the stairs.
Elena didn't shift an inch from her seat in row one.
She merely raised one slender hand, holding up a certified blue-backed legal summons.
"Don't touch those stairs, gentlemen," Elena said, her voice smooth, low, and slicing through the auditorium like an executioner's blade.
Behind her, the heavy double doors at the rear of the hall slammed open with a deafening metallic boom.
