20. Declan
Declan
The first camera light turns red before Sloane finishes adjusting the microphone at my podium.
For half a second, the room holds its breath.
The boardroom has been rearranged into something halfway between a press briefing and a trial.
Cameras lined along the back wall, reporters seated in rows, the Crossridge board watching from the long table to my right.
The lights are too bright. The air is too warm.
Somewhere behind me, Marcus speaks quietly to one of our legal advisors. Graham is talking to a board member. Adrian stands near the windows with his arms folded, his expression calm enough that anyone else might mistake it for indifference.
I know better. Graham is furious. So are Adrian, Marcus, and Sloane, though she hides it behind a polished expression and a tablet held neatly against her ribs.
I should be focused on the statement in front of me.
The pages are organized, approved, marked with the exact points legal wants me to hit.
Places where I’m supposed to pause. Places where I’m supposed to look into the camera.
Places where I’m supposed to say that Crossridge takes privacy seriously, that we condemn the exploitation of children, that we will pursue every available legal remedy against the people responsible for the leaks.
All of that is true, and it’s not enough.
My phone rests facedown on the podium beside the statement.
It hasn’t left my hand since I walked into Crossridge this morning.
Calls from Marcus. Graham. Sloane. Legal.
Security. More messages than I’ve had time to answer.
Every conversation circles the same thing.
Containing the damage, protecting Flynn, and finding whoever started this before they disappear again.
That’s what brought me here. Not the board. Not the headlines. Not the questions waiting outside those doors. It was the look on Talia’s face yesterday morning the moment I realized the world had reached us before I could. She wanted to believe me. I know she did. I’m just not sure she still can.
Sloane steps beside me and lowers her voice. "You don't have to read every word."
I glance at her. She’s not looking at the cameras. She’s looking at me.
"The statement is there if you need it," she says. "But if you sound like legal wrote your heart, this won't work."
A rough breath almost becomes a laugh. "That may be the most terrifying thing you've ever said to me."
"Good." Her mouth barely curves. "Then maybe you'll tell the truth."
Before I can answer, Graham crosses the room and stops on my other side.
He doesn’t touch my shoulder or offer some public show of unity for the cameras already feeding live to every outlet that decided my son was an acceptable headline.
He simply stands there, close enough that I know he isn’t letting me walk into this alone.
Marcus joins us a second later, his phone still in his hand, his gaze sweeping the room once before settling on me. Adrian isn’t far behind, quietly adjusting the cuff of his jacket before taking his place beside us. He doesn’t say anything. He never wastes words when silence is enough.
Looking at the three men beside me, something in my chest eases. Graham, Marcus, and Adrian. My partners. My friends. They aren’t here because the cameras are rolling. They’re here because they refuse to let me face this alone.
"We traced enough of the origin points to establish coordination," Marcus says. "Not enough to bury Julian yet, but enough to shift the narrative."
"That's not why I'm doing this."
"I know," Marcus says.
Graham's gaze sharpens slightly. "But it matters."
"It matters because it protects Talia and Flynn."
"Exactly," Graham says. "Not because it protects the company."
Adrian finally speaks, his voice calm and steady. "The company can survive bad headlines."
My eyes meet his.
"Your family comes first."
The distinction should not feel as important as it does, but it steadies something in me.
Sloane checks the time, then gives a small nod toward the communications director standing near the back wall.
A countdown begins without sound, one hand lowering from five to four to three.
The room stills in increments. Reporters stop whispering.
Board members straighten in their chairs.
A photographer adjusts his lens, and the soft click carries farther than it should.
When the signal comes, Sloane steps forward first.
“Good morning. My name is Sloane Parker, head of public relations for Crossridge Group. We are making this statement live and without edits because the public deserves clarity, and because two private citizens—one of them a child—have been dragged into a coordinated campaign of speculation, harassment, and misinformation.”
Her voice is steady, controlled, and sharper than anything legal would have allowed if they’d been brave enough to try stopping her.
She outlines the facts without indulging the rumors.
The photographs of Talia’s home. The reporters at Flynn’s school.
The leaked images outside Talia’s townhome.
The fake memo that started the first wave of speculation.
The anonymous accounts pushing the same language across investor forums, gossip sites, and social feeds before the articles ever went live.
She doesn’t say Julian’s name. She doesn’t have to.
“Crossridge Group will release a verified timeline to members of the press following this statement,” she continues.
“That timeline will show that several of the claims currently circulating were seeded before the alleged supporting evidence existed. It will also show that the targeting of Ms. Talia Wynn and her minor child was not incidental. It was deliberate.”
A murmur moves through the reporters. Sloane lets it before she turns slightly toward me.
"Mr. Ward will speak now."
The room shifts its attention to me so completely that for one strange moment, I understand why Talia hates cameras. They don't feel like eyes. They feel like hands.
I glance down at the statement one last time before sliding it aside. Sloane notices the movement immediately. She doesn't reach for the pages or try to stop me. She simply gives the smallest nod, trusting me to find my own words.
"My name is Declan Ward," I begin, and my own voice sounds lower than I expect. "I'm one of the founding partners of Crossridge Group. I'm also Flynn Wynn’s father."
The room changes at once.
Reporters know better than to gasp on camera, but the silence intensifies.
Pens pause. A few heads lift. Someone in the second row glances toward the person beside him, and I’m reminded how much of my life has been shaped by rooms like this.
Rooms where the right sentence could raise a valuation or destroy a deal.
Rooms where truth mattered less than timing.
I’m done with that.
“For the last several days, people have speculated about Ms. Wynn, about her son, and about my relationship to them. Some of those rumors were manufactured. Some were deliberately distorted. But there is one truth that should have come from me before anyone else had the chance to twist it.”
I rest both hands against the podium, grounding myself before I continue.
“Seven years ago, Talia and I shared one night together. When morning came, we went our separate ways. I didn’t know she was pregnant. I didn’t know Flynn existed. That truth doesn’t erase the years we lost, and it doesn’t erase my regret. It only explains how they happened.”
Sloane remains quietly beside me. I don’t have to look to know Graham, Marcus, and Adrian are still there. I can feel the certainty of their support at my back. A reminder that whatever happens over the next few minutes, I won’t face it alone.
I draw a slow breath and continue.
“I didn’t know I had a son until recently.
Since learning the truth, I’ve been trying to earn a place in his life and in Ms. Wynn’s.
That process should have remained private.
Flynn is six years old. He’s not a public figure.
He’s not a corporate asset. He’s not a storyline, a strategy, a scandal, or an opportunity for clicks.
“He is a child.
“And the people who photographed him, followed him, asked questions at his school, and published images of him without consent crossed a line no responsible person should cross.”
This time, the murmur is louder.
“Crossridge provided a secure apartment because reporters had already shown up at Ms. Wynn’s home and at Flynn’s school. We did not do it to hide wrongdoing. We did it because a mother and her child deserved to sleep somewhere without cameras outside the door.
“If that decision becomes part of a public debate, I will take responsibility for it. But I will not allow anyone to pretend that protecting a child is the scandal.”
The words leave me steadier than I feel. Maybe because this is the easiest truth I've ever told.
A reporter near the aisle raises her hand, but Sloane steps forward before she can speak. "Questions will be addressed after the evidence presentation."
She taps the tablet, and the large screen behind us comes to life.
The first graphic is simple. Dates. Times.
Posts. Headlines. Screenshots from anonymous accounts, usernames blurred for the public feed but preserved in the packet going to legal.
Sloane walks through it with the same precision I’ve seen her use during crises at Crossridge, though this time there’s anger beneath every measured word.