Part 2My Sugar Baby Is My Dad

The screen flickered.

A grid of partially redacted bank statements flashed up, the red boxes highlighting outgoing transfers to an account registered under the name "Thomas D."

A collective gasp swept through the room.

"Three million in six months? What is this boy made of?"

"Using Belmont capital to pamper a boy toy... the audacity."

"With evidence like that, how does she still have the nerve to stand there eating cake?"

Disdain turned into an open trial. Tinsley closed the distance, her heels clicking like metronomes of doom.

"Genevieve, what do you have to say now?" she demanded. "Can you look everyone in the eye and say that was your own money? Does that pathetic little parts factory your father owns even clear three million in a decade?"

I swallowed the last crumb of green tea mousse and dabbed my lip with a linen napkin.

"My father’s pathetic little parts factory?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

My father, Thomas Delancey, was indeed an eccentric of the highest order. He preferred worn flannel shirts, beat-up running shoes, and spent his afternoons arguing over chess moves with retired cab drivers in Washington Square Park.

Who could have guessed that the eccentric old man held controlling equity in a dozen Fortune 500 logistics firms?

And as for those three million dollars in wire transfers...

I suppressed a sigh. That was the money he had secretly blown on private vocal coaches, choreography tutors, and garish custom streetwear for his mid-life crisis audition. Every time his platinum card hit its limit, he would show up at my loft, wrapping himself around my knees and threatening to go busk in the subway stations if I didn't replenish his allowance.

And now, Tinsley had crowned him my secret boy toy.

Malcolm couldn't take it anymore. He took half a step forward, his shadow engulfing Tinsley.

"Tinsley, you’ve had your fun," he said, his voice flat, razor-sharp. "Where Genevieve gets her money is none of your business. Say one more word, and I promise you will leave this room on a stretcher."

The room went dead. Tinsley flinched, shrinking back an inch from the sheer menace radiating off him.

Yet she knew the dynamics of high society all too well. The harder Malcolm fought for me, the more the room would view me as a manipulative siren who had blinded him.

Before she could exploit the moment, a harsh clearing of a throat came from the center aisle.

"Malcolm, have you lost your mind?"

The crowd parted. Malcolm’s uncle, Eugene Belmont, strode forward, leaning heavily on a carved mahogany cane, his face dark with fury.

"The Belmont family will not allow a degenerate woman through our doors!" Eugene barked, slamming his cane against the plush carpet.

Tinsley lit up, instantly scurrying to Eugene's side like an injured fawn. "Uncle Eugene, please don't blame Malcolm. He’s been blinded. Genevieve’s schemes run deep—she targeted his heart and his bank account. I couldn't bear to watch our families disgraced."

Eugene patted her hand with paternal righteousness, casting a glare of pure revulsion toward the dais. "Genevieve, we agreed to this match out of respect for your family’s supposed modest decency. We never anticipated such absolute rot. Take that ring off your finger and get out."

The livestream comments surged again:

"Uncle Eugene telling it like it is! Throw the trash out!"

"The Belmonts are old money, they don't need this gutter trash."

"Tinsley is a real one for exposing this."

"Give the ring back! That diamond belongs to the dynasty!"

Malcolm’s jaw tightened. "Uncle Eugene, my marriage is not a board decision, and it certainly isn't yours to dictate."

Eugene’s mustache quivered with rage. "You dare speak to your elders like this over an unfaithful woman? You are completely unhinged!"

Tinsley stoked the fire, her eyes glistening. "Malcolm, Uncle Eugene is trying to save you. Look at the screen! Are you really going to wage war on your own blood for this woman?"

The looping video played on behind us: the blond man clutching my knees, me scowling down at him, tossing a brick of bills onto his chest.

Looking at my father's shameless, money-grubbing grin, I felt another migraine forming.

"Old man, just wait until I get you home."

I touched Malcolm’s sleeve, pulling him back slightly. Eugene was only looking for an excuse to undermine Malcolm's control of the family trust; engaging him here was playing into his hands.

"We all understand Malcolm’s protective instincts," a shrill voice cut in from the VIP tables—one of Tinsley's socialite sycophants. "But let’s not insult everyone’s intelligence. That video isn't AI-generated, and those wire receipts are verified. Genevieve, if you're so clean, why don't you tell us who the blond boy is? Or is he just some bumpkin cousin from upstate?"