Elon Musk Begged Ex to Bear His 15th Child: "I Want to Knock You Up Again" in Shocking Message

When the world thinks of Elon Musk, the first words that come to mind are “innovator,” “genius,” “visionary,” or perhaps more recently, “controversial.” But behind the billion-dollar headlines and galactic ambitions lies a far more intimate narrative—one that reveals a man obsessed not just with space travel and artificial intelligence, but with reproduction, legacy, and control. 

That story came to light when Ashley St. Clair, a 26-year-old conservative influencer, revealed a private message from Musk during her pregnancy that read simply: “I want to knock you up again.”

To understand the weight of that message is to understand the complex, often disquieting relationship between Musk and the women who bear his children. St. Clair, who gave birth to Musk’s 14th publicly known child, Romulus, earlier in 2024, was more than just another name in Musk’s sprawling, secretive paternal network.

She was someone Musk actively pursued, emotionally entangled, and allegedly tried to mold into a long-term participant in his vision for a biological dynasty.

Their story began on social media in the spring of 2023. Musk—well into his campaign to reshape politics, media, and even human evolution—slid into St. Clair’s DMs. From there, things moved quickly. She visited the offices of X in San Francisco, joined him on a private jet to Rhode Island, and eventually found herself spending intimate time with Musk during a New Year’s vacation.

According to St. Clair, during that trip, she mentioned she was ovulating. Musk’s response was immediate: “What are we waiting for?” From that moment, she says, Romulus was conceived.

The baby’s name, inspired by the mythical founder of Rome, was no accident. Musk has often spoken about civilization, its collapse, and the need for brilliant people to repopulate the planet. For him, having children isn’t merely an act of love—it’s a mission. And Ashley St. Clair, by his own implication, was a selected participant in that mission.

Yet, what started as a futuristic romance quickly descended into a control-laden power struggle. Musk, according to St. Clair, wanted to dictate every aspect of their child’s entry into the world—from requesting a caesarean delivery to forbidding circumcision, based on his unorthodox beliefs about brain development and evolution.

She resisted. As a practicing Jew, St. Clair had her own religious and personal convictions. But Musk’s demands weren’t framed as suggestions. They came through Jared Birchall, his personal fixer and behind-the-scenes enforcer.

Musk’s alleged obsession didn’t stop at the method of birth. After Romulus was born, he attempted to secure St. Clair’s silence with a staggering offer: $15 million and $100,000 per month until the child turned 21—on the condition that she never publicly acknowledged Musk as the father.

The agreement also included a clause that forbade her from saying anything negative about Musk, though it did not restrict Musk from speaking about her.

St. Clair refused to sign. But the saga didn’t end there. In what now appears to be a familiar pattern in Musk’s relationships with the mothers of his children, she claims he cut her child support by 60% after she went public with the news.

Struggling financially, she sold her $100,000 Tesla Model S, the very vehicle she had purchased to transport both her young sons—Romulus and a three-year-old from a previous relationship.

Musk reportedly wanted St. Clair to join his so-called “kid legion”—a rumored group of his children and their mothers living in a gated community in Austin, Texas. It’s a community built not on co-parenting or love, but on compartmentalization. Each mother lives in her designated space, while Musk “comes and goes.” Some, like Shivon Zilis, are described as having “special status.”

Others, like Grimes, have publicly clashed with Musk over parenting disagreements. Grimes, in particular, has voiced anger at Musk for bringing their son X to political events with Donald Trump.

Within this strange familial structure, Musk allegedly sees himself not as a conventional father but as a curator of bloodlines, selecting women he finds “ideal” to produce what he views as the next generation of humans.

It's an ideology that combines elements of transhumanism, patriarchal control, and a dystopian twist on legacy-building. St. Clair, in resisting this vision, has become both a whistleblower and a cautionary tale.

She notes the irony of receiving text updates about Musk’s custody battle with Grimes, only to now find herself in the same legal maze. Her court filings describe a Musk who has met his son only three times, each encounter lasting no more than a couple of hours.

He has not asked for photos, not followed up on doctor’s appointments, and not expressed unsolicited interest in Romulus. According to St. Clair, all contact has been initiated by her, and Musk's priority has remained fixed on image management—not emotional presence.

Even when he does respond, Musk chooses to do so publicly and cryptically. On X, he acknowledged the situation with detached aloofness: “I don’t know if the child is mine or not, but am not against finding out.”

He later stated that he had provided St. Clair with $2.5 million and was sending $500,000 per year—an admission she countered by pointing out that the money was for the child, not a favor to her, and that most of it had been withdrawn in a bid to punish her for “disobedience.”

In court, Musk’s lawyers filed to seal the case, an apparent move to prevent further public scrutiny. Yet, the narrative is already out. St. Clair’s petition, shared before the sealing, accused Musk of psychological control, absenteeism, and a disturbing readiness to treat childbearing like a corporate operation—complete with NDAs, loyalty tests, and financial incentives.

Even the phrase “I want to knock you up again,” seemingly tossed out as a seductive line, now reads more like a directive in Musk’s growing archive of reproductive ambition. It wasn’t just about romance. It was about replication. Expansion. Legacy. A desire to see more Musk DNA etched into the world—under his terms.

St. Clair has refused to be part of that system. And in doing so, she’s shined a light on the darker corners of Elon Musk’s personal empire. An empire not built solely on rockets and code—but on control, concealment, and the complicated costs of saying no to the richest man alive.

As her case moves forward in New York, one thing is certain: this isn’t just a legal battle over custody. It’s a clash of ideologies—between a mother fighting for autonomy, and a father who sees reproduction as a mechanism in his pursuit of a new civilization.