In a bombshell revelation that has shaken the public image of Elon Musk, conservative influencer Ashley St. Clair has laid bare what she claims to be a web of secrecy, power, and transactional parenting—centered around their baby boy, Romulus. The unfolding legal and personal drama is not just about a custody battle.

It’s about one of the world’s most powerful men attempting to impose silence with the weight of his fortune, crafting a narrative of control cloaked in dollar signs, non-disclosure agreements, and paternal aloofness.

It all began with what many would consider a modern fairy tale of sorts. Musk, then 52, reached out to St. Clair through social media in May 2023, after noticing her influence at the conservative humor site The Babylon Bee. Their flirtation quickly escalated from digital exchanges to private jet invitations and trips to meet his children.

Musk, ever candid in his eccentricity, reportedly told St. Clair to “pick a name” after their first sexual encounter. That name would later become Romulus—a boy born of a whirlwind romance and a much more complicated reality.

By early January 2024, during a trip to the Caribbean island of Saint Barthélemy, St. Clair revealed she was ovulating. Musk’s response: “What are we waiting for?” Weeks later, conception occurred.But the romantic spontaneity gave way to something far colder. A paternity test conducted later would confirm Musk was “99.9999% likely” to be the father.

Yet, rather than welcome this new chapter, Musk allegedly moved to cover it with legal bindings and cash—offering St. Clair $15 million and $100,000 a month until the child turned 21, in exchange for silence about their son’s true paternity.

Musk’s fixer, Jared Birchall, became the intermediary in this transactional arrangement. According to St. Clair, Birchall likened the offer to deals struck with other mothers of Musk’s children—among them singer Grimes and Neuralink executive Shivon Zilis.

It was clear Musk preferred parenting on his terms: through compartmentalized arrangements that gave him children, but not necessarily public accountability.

Among the most bizarre conditions Musk insisted on was that the baby be delivered via caesarian section, a method he believes contributes to a “larger brain.” He also asked that the child not be circumcised. St. Clair, who is Jewish and wished for a natural birth, refused both requests.

But she did agree to keep Musk’s name off Romulus’ birth certificate, though not without first hiring an attorney—much to Birchall’s dismay.

When Birchall later pressured her to sign documents permanently barring her from revealing Musk’s fatherhood—or saying anything negative about him—the offer was not extended in mutual fairness. Musk, the documents made clear, could still speak freely about St. Clair.

In her telling, the final straw came when Musk tried to manipulate her with tales of alleged assassination threats due to his political leanings, notably his alignment with Donald Trump. She refused to sign.

Despite the legal back-and-forth, St. Clair claims Musk did show moments of warmth, sending flowers on her birthday and Mother’s Day. She even tested what life could look like within Musk’s elusive “kid legion,” a term she used to describe his growing brood of children, many of whom allegedly live in a gated community compound in Austin, Texas.

Musk wanted St. Clair and Romulus to move there, alongside other mothers like Zilis—seen as a stabilizing presence in Musk’s life. Grimes, on the other hand, reportedly refused to live in such a setup, and has since been publicly critical of Musk’s parenting.

The contrast between Zilis and Grimes, according to Birchall, was often used to manipulate St. Clair emotionally. He painted Zilis as content, Grimes as chronically unhappy, and positioned Musk as the misunderstood visionary trying to navigate a chaotic web of mothers, children, and critics. St. Clair, however, found herself dragged deeper into a cycle she never signed up for.

By February 2025, St. Clair had had enough. In a post on Musk’s own platform, X, she revealed that he was the father of her child. The disclosure led to a paternity and custody lawsuit filed in New York. According to her petition, Musk had met Romulus only three times—briefly—in the months following his birth.

He had shown no interest in his son’s medical updates, had not asked for photos, and had never initiated contact without being prompted. Despite having allegedly offered her millions for secrecy, St. Clair says Musk ghosted both her and their child when she declined to surrender control.

In March, she was spotted selling her Tesla—purchased to accommodate her two children—to help cover expenses. She told a reporter that Musk had unilaterally cut her child support by 60% in retaliation for her refusal to remain silent.

“I need to make up for the 60% cut that Elon made to our son’s child support,” she said, handing the car keys to a Carvana representative. Her words echoed a wider frustration: “You can check the stocks. I’m not the only one who is cleaning up after his messes.”

Musk’s public responses have been typically cryptic. He posted on X that he was unsure of his paternity but wasn’t against “finding out.” He admitted to providing $2.5 million to St. Clair and currently sending $500,000 per year—while she insists these payments were contingent on obedience, not genuine fatherly concern.“It’s all about control with you,” she shot back in a fiery post, “and everyone can see it.”

Indeed, the saga mirrors a broader theme in Musk’s life: an obsession with control, privacy, and influence that extends from his companies to his parenting. Sources close to St. Clair describe Musk’s actions as punitive and retaliatory.

His attempt to have court records sealed while cutting her support, they say, reveals a man determined to silence dissent—even as he claims to champion transparency in government and technology.St. Clair’s custody filing described a pattern of avoidance and coldness. Musk chose not to be present at Romulus’ birth.

He only visited briefly—once in New York, twice in Austin. When she proposed a move to Texas, he insisted she stay in New York, only to later disengage completely.

The legal battle has turned bitter. Though court documents are now sealed, filings suggest the judge is sympathetic to St. Clair’s position, recently issuing an order to compel Musk to respond.

In the meantime, Musk continues to make headlines for other women he allegedly pursues—such as glamorous crypto journalist Tiffany Fong, who had to publicly deny rumors that she was pregnant with Musk’s child. Musk reportedly sent her money after online interactions and asked if she wanted to “join the legion.” Fong declined, stating she wanted a more traditional family.

Amid all this, St. Clair says she’s just trying to raise her children—Romulus and her three-year-old son from a previous relationship. She lives in a rented Manhattan apartment, has no logistical help from Musk, and leans on a full-time nanny for support.

Despite the opulence of Musk’s lifestyle and his position as one of the world’s richest men, the woman he fathered a child with says she is left to scrape together the basics.

Her closing words to Musk were both searing and symbolic. “America needs you to grow up, you petulant man-child.” It was more than just a personal rebuke. It was a scathing indictment of a billionaire who, according to her, values image over involvement, secrecy over responsibility, and power over parenthood.

As the court case unfolds behind sealed records and encrypted messages, one thing is certain: Romulus was born into a storm. Not of politics, wealth, or science—but of power, promises, and the limits of love when the cost of silence is $15 million.