Chapter 4 THE REVELATION BROADCAST

CHAPTER FOUR: THE REVELATION BROADCAST

The Waldorf Ballroom glittered with camera flashes as Claire Matthews Tyler took center stage, the epitome of wounded dignity in a cream silk dress designed to showcase her slender figure. Behind her, a massive screen displayed childhood photos—Claire at sailing camp, Claire at equestrian competitions, Claire with a young Marty at the Tyler family's summer gala.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," she began, voice quavering perfectly. "I've called this conference to address the malicious rumors circulating about my identity and my relationship with my fiancé, Marty Tyler."

The assembled journalists leaned forward, digital recorders extended. This was the society scandal of the decade—the billionaire heir, the disputed rescue, the mysterious cousin who had resurfaced with a child bearing the unmistakable Tyler features.

"Six years ago," Claire continued, "I saved Marty from drowning after a boating accident. The injury I sustained—" she touched her hip delicately, "—has become the subject of disgusting speculation. Today, I will put those rumors to rest."

At the back of the ballroom, Marty Tyler stood with arms crossed, expression unreadable. Beside him, his security team shifted uncomfortably. He had insisted on attending despite Claire's protests, despite her mother's frantic calls threatening everything from lawsuits to leaked college indiscretions.

"Ms. Matthews," called out a reporter from the front row, "can you address claims that your cousin, Molly Douglas, was actually the person who saved Mr. Tyler that day?"

Claire's smile tightened. "My poor cousin suffered from mental health issues for years. She was obsessed with Marty and with my life. That summer, she even cut her hair to match mine. After Marty's accident, her delusions worsened. My mother, as Chief of Plastic Surgery, tried to help her, but—"

"By erasing her scar?" came a voice from the side entrance.

The crowd gasped and pivoted en masse. Standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway lights, was Molly Douglas.

Unlike Claire's carefully styled elegance, Molly wore simple black trousers and a white blouse. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail. No makeup concealed the shadows under her eyes or the slight scar above her right eyebrow—another souvenir from that day at the lake.

"This is a closed press conference," Claire hissed, signaling security.

Molly walked calmly down the center aisle. "I wouldn't do that, Claire. Not when I'm about to save you from committing felony fraud on national television."

She reached into her bag, causing security to tense, but withdrew only a small spray bottle.

"What is that?" Claire demanded, backing away.

"Industrial-grade makeup remover." Molly smiled thinly. "Specifically designed to dissolve waterproof stage makeup and... temporary scar tattoos."

Before anyone could react, she sprayed the solution directly at Claire's hip, where the edge of the famous crescent scar peeked out from her strategically cut dress.

Claire shrieked, more in outrage than pain, as the liquid soaked through the silk. Where it touched, the fabric turned translucent, revealing skin beneath—and the unmistakable smearing of what had appeared to be a scar.

"You psychotic bitch!" Claire lunged, but Molly sidestepped easily.

"Look," Molly commanded the stunned reporters, pointing to the dissolving mark. "Professional theatrical makeup. Claire refreshes it weekly. I have the receipts from her purchases at Cinema Secrets Professional Cosmetics."

As cameras zoomed in on Claire's hip, Molly pulled out her phone. "And now, let me introduce you to someone else who can verify this fraud."

The ballroom's sound system crackled as Molly hacked into it with three taps on her device. A recorded conversation began playing:

"*Mother, this is insane! The tattoo keeps fading—someone's going to notice!*" Claire's voice, panicked.

"*No one will question it. I've altered all the hospital records. Just keep wearing those high-waisted bikinis until after the wedding.*" Dr. Regina Matthews, coldly practical.

"*And what if he remembers? What if he realizes it was her?*"

"*He won't. The medication ensures that. Besides, Molly signed away all rights when she agreed to the mental health commitment in exchange for her freedom. My daughter WILL marry into the Tyler fortune. I didn't spend twenty years cultivating this relationship for nothing.*"

The ballroom erupted into chaos. Journalists shouted questions. Photographers climbed on chairs for better angles. Claire stood frozen on stage, mascara streaking down her face as she clawed at her hip, smearing the fake scar further.

Marty pushed through the crowd toward Molly, his expression thunderous. But before he could reach her, the massive screen behind Claire flickered and changed.

A new face appeared—a five-year-old boy with a mischievous grin.

"Hi everybody!" Noah waved cheerfully. "I'm Noah Douglas, and I'm about to show you something cool!"

The screen split to display a hospital database interface. Noah's small fingers flew across a keyboard.

"I'm doing what Mommy calls 'ethical hacking' for educational purposes," he explained seriously. "See, when people go to hospitals, they make records. And when people lie about those records, sometimes the original data still exists in backup servers."

Claire screamed, "Shut it down!" but the technicians stood helplessly at their controls.

"First," Noah continued, "here's the blood typing report from when Mr. Tyler was admitted after his accident."

The document appeared, highlighting: *Patient received emergency transfusion compatible with rare B negative blood type.*

"And here's the donor record from that day."

A second document: *Emergency donor: Molly Douglas, B negative.*

"Claire's blood type is A positive," Noah added helpfully. "It's in her annual physical records. Oops, probably shouldn't show those."

The screen changed again to security footage from the hospital dated sixteen years ago. A younger Molly, hair wet and clothes soaked, being forcibly sedated by hospital staff while Dr. Matthews supervised.

"They didn't want anyone to know I was there," Molly said quietly to the now-silent room. "They kept me drugged for two weeks while they convinced Marty I was delusional. By the time I was released, he was already engaged to Claire."

Marty finally reached her side, his face ashen. "Why didn't you fight back? Why disappear for six years?"

Molly looked at him steadily. "Because Regina Matthews threatened to have me committed permanently if I didn't sign papers renouncing all claims to you and any future children. I was twenty years old, alone, and pregnant. I chose freedom and my child over a fight I couldn't win."

On screen, Noah gave a theatrical bow. "And now for my final trick—I present to you Claire's mother's surgical records!"

The screen displayed Dr. Matthews' private files: *Patient: Molly Douglas. Procedure: Laser scar removal, lower left back. Notes: Complete removal required to eliminate evidence of rescue incident.*

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as Noah added, "And here's my mom's back now!"

The final image appeared: a recent photograph showing Molly's lower back, unmarked except for the faintest silvery trace where advanced laser technology had erased most—but not all—of her sacrifice.

In the stunned silence that followed, Claire collapsed into a chair, all pretense abandoned. "You've ruined everything," she sobbed.

"No, Claire," Molly replied calmly. "You and your mother did that when you stole my life."

Journalists surged forward, questions flying, but Molly was already walking toward the exit. Marty caught her arm.

"Wait," he said, voice rough with emotion. "You can't just drop this bomb and leave."

"Watch me." She pulled free. "I'm not here for reconciliation, Marty. I'm here for justice and to ensure my children's legacy isn't built on lies."

"Children?" His eyes widened. "So it's true—you're pregnant again?"

Before she could answer, a commotion at the doorway drew everyone's attention. Noah had arrived in person, escorted by Marty's chauffeur.

"Sorry to crash the grown-up party," the boy announced, straightening his miniature bow tie. "But Mom forgot her medicine, and pregnant ladies need to take their vitamins."

He held up a prescription bottle labeled PRENATAL VITAMINS, then skipped over to hand it to his mother. The photographers went wild, capturing the unmistakable resemblance between Noah and the man standing speechless beside Molly.

"You brought him here?" Molly hissed. "I told you to stay with Mrs. Henderson!"

Noah shrugged. "She fell asleep watching her soap operas. Besides, I wanted to see if he looks like me in person." He turned to study Marty critically. "Hmm. We have the same eyes, but I'm definitely smarter."

A laugh rippled through the crowd, breaking the tension. Marty crouched down to Noah's eye level, hands trembling slightly.

"Hello, Noah," he said quietly. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Noah regarded him solemnly. "Are you going to make Mom cry again?"

"Noah!" Molly interjected, mortified.

"It's a valid question," the boy insisted. "Statistically speaking, based on past behavior patterns—"

"I hope not," Marty answered, holding the boy's gaze. "I've made terrible mistakes. But I'd like a chance to fix them."

Noah considered this, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. "This is for you. It's a chart of your stock performance before and after my intervention. I've calculated that you'll recover fully within eighteen trading days if you implement the security patches I sent to your CTO."

As Marty unfolded the complex financial analysis clearly created by a kindergartener prodigy, Noah turned to the stunned journalists.

"Any questions about the medical records should be directed to my mom's lawyer. I have to go finish my dinosaur diorama now." He took Molly's hand. "Come on, Mom. Your blood pressure is probably elevated, and that's not good for my sister."

"Sister?" Marty echoed.

Noah rolled his eyes. "Statistically likely. Mom's carrying low, has increased acid reflux compared to her pregnancy with me, and craves citrus instead of chocolate. Classic girl indicators."

As Molly hurried Noah toward the exit, cameras following their every move, Marty caught a last glimpse of them framed in the doorway—his son confidently leading his mother, her free hand resting protectively over her still-flat stomach.

The image hit him with the force of physical pain. This was his family—the family he'd been manipulated into denying.

Behind him, Claire was still sobbing on stage as reporters shouted questions about the fake scar. But Marty Tyler was already moving, pushing past the crowd toward the exit where Molly and Noah had disappeared.

He stepped outside just in time to see them climbing into a waiting taxi.

"Molly!" he called desperately.

She turned, expression guarded. "What?"

"I remember now," he said, the words tumbling out. "Not just the rescue. Everything. Why you were at the lake house that weekend. What I asked you to do."

Her face paled. "Don't."

"I asked you to pretend to be Claire because the real Claire had broken up with me," he continued, moving closer. "I wanted to make her jealous by posting photos with her 'cousin.' It was my stupid plan that put you on that dock."

The taxi driver honked impatiently.

"That's ancient history," Molly said, but her voice wavered.

"Is it?" Marty challenged. "Or is it the reason you never told me about Noah? Because I used you once before?"

For a long moment, they stared at each other, sixteen years of secrets and pain suspended between them.

Then Noah leaned out the taxi window. "Mom, your heart rate is elevated again. Dr. Sharma said to avoid stress."

That broke the spell. Molly climbed into the taxi without another word.

As the vehicle pulled away, Marty's phone buzzed with a notification. A new email from an unknown address contained a single image:

Marty and Molly on the dock, sixteen years ago. His arm around her waist. Both laughing. Genuine happiness captured in pixels.

The caption read: "Before the drowning. Before the lies. This is what they stole from us both."