Chapter 2: Truths Under the Spotlight

He leaned in, voice soft but insistent, working the crowd like a pro. The cameras zoomed in, catching every shaky breath, every glistening tear. I could feel the pressure mounting.

Right on cue, the woman started wailing again and tried to kneel before me, "Sweetheart, my baby, I’m so sorry—"

Her knees started to give, but I moved fast, blocking her. Not a chance I’d let her flip the script, not here, not now.

I stepped in, blocking her from kneeling. If she managed it, the whole story would spin out of my control. Things would get even messier.

She tried a few more times, but I wouldn’t let her. Finally, she turned away, crying into her hands, her shoulders shaking for the cameras.

From where I stood, I could see her squeezing her eyes shut, trying to force out more tears—most of it was for show. But the cameras caught the angle they wanted.

If I didn’t take a stand today, even if some people believed me, in a country this big, there’d always be someone pointing fingers. I couldn’t let that happen.

I didn’t care about myself, but I’d never let anyone drag my dad’s name through the mud. Not ever.

So I dropped to my knees on stage too, sobbing even harder than the woman.

My knees slammed the hard stage, the cold seeping through my dress. I let the tears come, my shoulders shaking. I could feel the whole audience holding their breath, waiting.

"I don’t want to either, but the only reason I could go to school was because my dad saved every penny. One year, I saw him eating plain mac and cheese every night at the construction site. The job was brutal, sweat left white salt stains on his shirt. But he never bought himself a drink or even splurged on a burger. If I had a birth mother and turned my back on my real dad, how could I live with myself?"

The words tumbled out, raw and honest. I caught people in the front row wiping their eyes, the truth sinking in. It felt good to finally say it.

I clung to the woman’s hand. "Mom, my dad raised me with everything he had. You get that, right?"

I turned toward my almost invisible birth father, my voice trembling.

"Dad, you didn’t just show up now that I’m grown because you want a piece of my success, right? I’m sure you brought some child support for my dad, right?"

The man looked like he was about to blow. They’d only come because the daughter they’d thrown away turned out successful, and now they wanted a piece—no way they’d pay a cent.

But the cameras were rolling. He swallowed his anger, face red, jaw clenched, unable to get a word out.

The woman just sobbed louder, not daring to speak.

The audience started whispering again, the tension building.

The air in the room was thick enough to slice. I could hear people shifting in their seats, trading uneasy glances. My skin prickled.

Mr. Lambert jumped in again: "I believe Miss Carter can take care of both her birth parents and her adoptive father."

Was he really going to put me on the spot like this?

I felt my fists clench, nails digging into my palms. He wanted a show, but I wasn’t about to play the part he wanted. Not tonight.

"Mr. Lambert, I just graduated this year. My health’s not great, I’m on medication. I’m not like you—so generous and successful."

I sniffled, then coughed. "Mr. Lambert is truly compassionate, bringing my parents all the way to Chicago, and right in front of me—you wouldn’t just leave us hanging, would you?"

It clicked immediately for the woman—there was money in this. Mr. Lambert was loaded. If she played the victim, maybe he’d cough up a donation. And with the cameras rolling, he couldn’t say no.

She spun around and bowed to Mr. Lambert, sobbing even louder.

Her voice rose, dramatic as a soap opera. The audience lapped it up, some even clapping for her "humility."

"Mr. Lambert, you’re such a good person. Without you, I wouldn’t have this chance. We have no way to repay you. It’s just a shame we can never thank Autumn’s adoptive father. We don’t deserve to take our daughter back, and I just feel so guilty."

She never came right out and asked for money, but the look in her eyes—hidden behind her hand—was all calculation.

The lights glinted off her tears, but I could see her scheming. She was angling for a payout, plain as day.

"I also want to help..." Mr. Lambert, who was used to putting others on the spot, never expected to get cornered himself. He was about to explain—

His voice faltered, his usual confidence slipping. I almost smiled, watching him squirm.

"I’ll help!" Suddenly, a short, buzz-cut guy climbed up from the audience and shoved a $20 bill into Mr. Lambert’s hand.

The crowd erupted in laughter. I almost lost my composure on stage—it was the same good guy who’d cheered me on earlier, now helping me out in this act.

Let’s see how Mr. Lambert wriggles out of this one.

The guy winked at me as he hopped off the stage. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

Mr. Lambert’s polite refusal caught in his throat. He glanced at the cameras, the eager crowd, and the man in front of him whose chest heaved with excitement. He looked like he might grind his teeth to dust.

All he could do was grab the mic and say, "Today I will definitely help this family, make it up to Miss Carter’s adoptive father, and bring their family together as soon as possible."

Thunderous applause exploded. The family of four was giddy—soon they’d get a fat payout.

But it was just a promise on stage. Once the cameras were off, Mr. Lambert could always back out.

I jumped at the chance. "Mr. Lambert, I am truly grateful to you."

My eyes sparkled as I pulled Mr. Lambert up on stage. "With so many people watching, I have to thank Mr. Lambert properly."

The family of four caught on quick, crowding around Mr. Lambert. The production team hustled out a whiteboard for a photo op, and someone scrawled a message about Mr. Lambert’s donation in thick black marker.

Flashes popped, the audience cheered, and Mr. Lambert’s smile froze. He looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon.

Mr. Lambert’s smile was stiff. Amid the roaring applause, he saw me mouth something and blurted out, "What did you say?"

But the noise swallowed everything up. He never heard me.

I acted like I’d just heard the best news ever, bowing over and over, my face lit with surprise and joy.

The applause finally faded. I was still bowing when I remembered the mic and snatched it up.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Lambert. Not only will he help our family, but he’ll also help kind people like my adoptive dad. Mr. Lambert just told me that in the future, he’ll set up a charity foundation named after my father, for adoptive parents. Mr. Lambert, all I can do is bow again."

I bowed so low my hair brushed my knees, and the crowd went wild, chanting his name. The cameras caught every angle.

"Mr. Lambert! Mr. Lambert!" I raised my arm and shouted. The audience joined in, cheers rising like a tidal wave, the energy in the room peaking.

Mr. Lambert probably wanted to strangle me, but he had to plaster on a smile.

Ha. I just love the way you can’t stand me but can’t do a thing about it.

But he was the only one upset.

The family of four, clutching the whiteboard, looked like they’d hit the lottery. They were dizzy with excitement—such a big payday, they’d really struck gold.

How could I forget about them? They weren’t getting a single cent from me. Not a chance.

I looked at them, all expectation. "Mr. Lambert’s already agreed to pay for Mom and Dad. Our family can finally be reunited. You can’t wait to give this money to my dad, right? To thank him for raising me?"