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To get a claim in my company?”
“Dylan…” she said, looking me in the eye.
“You want blood, Jessica? There it is. That’s all you’re entitled to.
You walked out when I was a newborn. You were gone for over two decades. My dad, Greg, is my parent.
The rest of this?” I tapped the table. “This company. This life.
This identity… You’re not entitled to it… or me.”
She didn’t speak.
Her lawyer leaned forward, lips parting like he was going to object, but Maya was faster.
“Let’s talk numbers,” Maya said calmly, flipping open our file.
We presented everything: my dad’s employment records, proof he worked two jobs, medical expenses he covered alone, and even screenshots of Jessica’s public posts bragging about her new life while offering nothing to the one she left behind.
“We’re filing for retroactive child support,” Maya said.
“And based on the financial picture we’ve gathered, the court is going to agree that your client had the means to help… and didn’t.”
Jessica denied everything and even wiped her eyes with a tissue she clearly brought for effect.
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