The Strawberry Cake Was The Last Chance Mr. Sterling Novel by Anonymous _ Novel





The Strawberry Cake Was The Last Chance Mr. Sterling Chapter 01

"It's okay, Mr. Sterling. You can go."
My 5-year-old son dropped his silk bowtie on the floor, his eyes completely dead.
His father was leaving his birthday shoot. Again.
His "widowed friend" Vivienne called crying because her kid scraped a knee.
Worse? Julian stole my son's unopened birthday present—a rare vintage toy he'd been waiting weeks to build—just to stop Vivienne's kid from crying.
"I'll buy him ten better sets," Julian scoffed. "Don't make this a big deal."
So, I didn't.
I just texted my lawyer: File the injunction. Full custody. Freeze the accounts.
48 hours later, Julian sped his Porsche toward the theme park, annoyed we weren't answering his calls.
But he had no idea our private jet was already 30,000 feet over the Atlantic.
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The strobe lights in the Fifth Avenue studio hummed.
At three thousand dollars an hour, the photographer didn't waste time.
Leo stood perfectly still on the tape mark, wearing a miniature replica of his father's suit while I knelt to adjust his collar.
"Keep your chin up, sweetie," I murmured.
Leo gave a small nod, keeping his eyes locked on the camera lens.
Two feet away, Julian checked his Rolex. He hadn't looked at the camera once. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on his phone, his thumb swiping with rapid impatience.
"Mr. Sterling," the photographer called out. "If you could join your wife and son. We're losing the natural light from the windows."
Pocketing his phone, Julian stepped onto the backdrop, the sharp scent of his cedarwood cologne cutting through the stale studio air as he placed a heavy hand on Leo's shoulder.
Before the photographer could raise his camera, Julian's phone rang.
Julian's hand dropped from Leo's shoulder. He pulled the phone from his inner pocket. He didn't silence it. He turned his back to us.
"Vivienne," he murmured, his voice dropping low, yet in the quiet studio, every word was distinct. "What's wrong?"
A pause. Even from a distance, a woman's frantic sobbing bled through the receiver.
"Slow down," Julian said. "He fell? Is he bleeding?"
I stood up, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
"I'm on my way," Julian said.
Ending the call, he turned around. His gaze bypassed me entirely, fixing straight on the exit.
"I have to go."
"The shoot ends in twenty minutes, Julian," I said. My voice stayed flat. I kept my hands firmly wrapped around my clutch.
"Tommy is in the emergency room." He buttoned his suit jacket, already stepping off the backdrop. "Vivienne said he fell down the stairs at her townhouse. She's alone, Chloe. Be reasonable."
I looked at the silver cufflink gleaming on his wrist. "Leo's birthday dinner was last Tuesday. You left before the cake. Vivienne had a panic attack about a leak in her roof."
"This is a medical emergency. The kid is five."
"And this is your son's family portrait. The one you delayed for three months."
Julian let out a tight breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll make it up to him. I'll buy him that vintage LEGO set he's been begging for. We'll go to the Hamptons next weekend."
I didn't argue. I didn't raise my voice. The energy to fight him had evaporated somewhere between the second canceled anniversary trip and the third midnight phone call from a woman he claimed was just a "widowed friend."
Stepping off the blue tape, Leo reached up to his collar and quietly unfastened the silk bowtie.
Julian paused, his hand gripping the brass doorknob. "Leo, buddy, Dad has to handle this. I'll be back before dinner, okay?"
Leo walked over, holding out the crumpled piece of black silk.
Julian looked down at the tie, then at our son. "What are you doing?"
"It's okay, Mr. Sterling," Leo said, his voice completely flat. "You can go."
The studio went dead silent. The photographer turned his back, pretending to organize memory cards.
Julian stared at him, his hand hovering inches from the bowtie, paralyzed by his son's coldness. "Leo, don't call me that. I'm your father."
Leo opened his hand. The bowtie dropped. It landed silently on the floorboards, settling near Julian's polished Italian leather shoes.
Leo turned around. He walked back to the tape mark, slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and faced the camera.
"I'm ready, Mom."
Julian's phone buzzed again in his hand. The screen lit up, flashing Vivienne's caller ID. He looked at the bowtie on the floor, opened his mouth as if to speak, then shoved the heavy oak door open.
The latch clicked shut.
I walked over to the tape mark and stood next to my son. I placed a hand on his shoulder. His small frame was rigid under the expensive wool.
"Are we still shooting?" the photographer asked.
"Yes," I said.
The flash went off. A burst of blinding white light hit us. It illuminated the massive, glaring empty space on my right.
I stared directly into the camera lens, refusing to look at the glaring empty space beside me.
Ten minutes later, we walked out onto Fifth Avenue. The Manhattan wind whipped my hair.
Leo held my hand tightly, watching the traffic in absolute silence. No questions about his father. No complaints about the LEGO set.
Pulling my phone from my purse, I opened the encrypted app and texted my attorney.
*File the injunction. I want full custody. Freeze the joint accounts the second the judge signs.*
I hit send.
My screen lit up with a reply almost instantly.
*Are you sure? Once the judge signs the order tomorrow morning, the clock starts. You have exactly 48 hours to disappear before his legal team gets the notification.*
I looked down at Leo. He was tracing the edge of a brass building plaque with his finger.
I typed back.
*Have the private jet fueled at Teterboro. We won't be here for dinner.* 

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