Chapter 9
Victor's attorney, Charles Whitmore, called Elaine within forty-eight hours of receiving our settlement proposal.
His voice was calm, professional, and dripping with contempt. "My client finds these terms laughable."
Elaine's response was cooler. "Then your client should find a good criminal defense attorney, because our next call is to the SEC."
Silence.
"We'll discuss internally and respond within five business days," Whitmore said, and hung up.
He responded in two.
The terms Victor countered with were insulting—reduced custody to joint, no trust fund, and a laughably small settlement. It was a power move. He wanted to see if I'd fold.
Elaine rejected it without asking me.
The next counter came with a threat attached: If I didn't accept by Friday, Victor would release a dossier to the media painting me as a mentally unstable woman who had forged documents to extort a prominent CEO.
I called Julian that night.
"He's bluffing," Julian said. "If he goes public, he has to explain why a 'deranged woman' has his signature on hospital forms, his money in her account, and six years of documented cohabitation in his property. The story collapses under basic scrutiny."
"But people don't always look at basic scrutiny," I said. "They look at headlines."
"That's true." A pause. "Do you trust me?"
The question surprised me. I hadn't trusted anyone in so long that the concept felt foreign.
"I trust that you want Victor to lose," I said honestly.
He was quiet for a moment. "Fair enough. Then let me handle the media angle. I know people. The right story, placed correctly, makes it impossible for Victor to spin the narrative."
"What kind of story?"
"Your story. But told on your terms, by journalists I trust. Before Victor gets a chance to smear you."
My throat tightened. Going public. Putting my name, my face, my daughter's existence out there. Everything I'd been trained for six years to hide.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"Of course. But Sienna—don't think too long. Men like Victor move fast when they're cornered."
Victor moved faster than any of us expected.
Two days later, when I went to drop Lily at school, two men in suits were waiting outside the building. They presented a court order—different judge, different jurisdiction, filed in Victor's home county where he had connections.
It demanded I produce Lily for a "welfare evaluation" within twenty-four hours.
My hands were ice as I read the paperwork. It was technically legal. He'd found a judge willing to sign it.
I called Elaine from the school parking lot, Lily still buckled in the back seat.
"Don't comply," Elaine said immediately. "I'm filing an emergency stay. He's judge-shopping, and I can get this thrown out—but I need forty-eight hours."
"I don't have forty-eight hours. This says twenty-four."
"Then disappear for a day. Take Lily somewhere they can't serve you. I'll have this quashed before they can enforce it."
I drove. I didn't know where. Just away.
We ended up at a small hotel thirty miles outside the city. I paid cash. I used a different name. Lily watched cartoons on the bed while I sat in the bathroom with the door cracked, phone in my lap, waiting.
At eleven p.m., Julian texted: *Stay's been granted. Order is void. You're safe to come back.*
Then, a second message: *He's getting desperate. That means we're winning.*
I pressed my forehead against the cold tile wall and let myself shake.
When I came back out, Lily was asleep, the TV still glowing blue. I tucked the blanket around her shoulders and pressed my lips to her temple.
"Almost done, baby," I whispered. "Almost done."
The next morning, I called Julian.
"I'm ready," I said. "Run the story."
His voice was calm, professional, and dripping with contempt. "My client finds these terms laughable."
Elaine's response was cooler. "Then your client should find a good criminal defense attorney, because our next call is to the SEC."
Silence.
"We'll discuss internally and respond within five business days," Whitmore said, and hung up.
He responded in two.
The terms Victor countered with were insulting—reduced custody to joint, no trust fund, and a laughably small settlement. It was a power move. He wanted to see if I'd fold.
Elaine rejected it without asking me.
The next counter came with a threat attached: If I didn't accept by Friday, Victor would release a dossier to the media painting me as a mentally unstable woman who had forged documents to extort a prominent CEO.
I called Julian that night.
"He's bluffing," Julian said. "If he goes public, he has to explain why a 'deranged woman' has his signature on hospital forms, his money in her account, and six years of documented cohabitation in his property. The story collapses under basic scrutiny."
"But people don't always look at basic scrutiny," I said. "They look at headlines."
"That's true." A pause. "Do you trust me?"
The question surprised me. I hadn't trusted anyone in so long that the concept felt foreign.
"I trust that you want Victor to lose," I said honestly.
He was quiet for a moment. "Fair enough. Then let me handle the media angle. I know people. The right story, placed correctly, makes it impossible for Victor to spin the narrative."
"What kind of story?"
"Your story. But told on your terms, by journalists I trust. Before Victor gets a chance to smear you."
My throat tightened. Going public. Putting my name, my face, my daughter's existence out there. Everything I'd been trained for six years to hide.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"Of course. But Sienna—don't think too long. Men like Victor move fast when they're cornered."
Victor moved faster than any of us expected.
Two days later, when I went to drop Lily at school, two men in suits were waiting outside the building. They presented a court order—different judge, different jurisdiction, filed in Victor's home county where he had connections.
It demanded I produce Lily for a "welfare evaluation" within twenty-four hours.
My hands were ice as I read the paperwork. It was technically legal. He'd found a judge willing to sign it.
I called Elaine from the school parking lot, Lily still buckled in the back seat.
"Don't comply," Elaine said immediately. "I'm filing an emergency stay. He's judge-shopping, and I can get this thrown out—but I need forty-eight hours."
"I don't have forty-eight hours. This says twenty-four."
"Then disappear for a day. Take Lily somewhere they can't serve you. I'll have this quashed before they can enforce it."
I drove. I didn't know where. Just away.
We ended up at a small hotel thirty miles outside the city. I paid cash. I used a different name. Lily watched cartoons on the bed while I sat in the bathroom with the door cracked, phone in my lap, waiting.
At eleven p.m., Julian texted: *Stay's been granted. Order is void. You're safe to come back.*
Then, a second message: *He's getting desperate. That means we're winning.*
I pressed my forehead against the cold tile wall and let myself shake.
When I came back out, Lily was asleep, the TV still glowing blue. I tucked the blanket around her shoulders and pressed my lips to her temple.
"Almost done, baby," I whispered. "Almost done."
The next morning, I called Julian.
"I'm ready," I said. "Run the story."