Chapter 7 - The Desperate Siege
Over the next four weeks, Central Park transformed from late autumn gold to the crisp, white frost of early December. Under my father’s roof, peace returned to my life for the first time in three years. I spent my mornings in the light-filled conservatory, painting watercolors for the nursery, eating nutritious meals prepared with care, and feeling my baby kick with vigorous, healthy strength. Arthur never brought corporate stress into the house; every evening, he would sit beside me, asking about the baby’s movements and reading aloud from old history books just as he used to do when I was a little girl.
Marcus, however, was living through a self-inflicted nightmare.
His phone calls had been blocked, his emails redirected to our legal team, and his access to our former Greenwich townhouse revoked by court order. Deprived of his corporate salary and pursued by aggressive private creditors whose calls Arthur’s syndicate refused to intercept, Marcus began unraveling.
On a freezing Tuesday morning, while Arthur was chairing a summit at the United Nations, a commotion erupted at the security barrier of the Vance residential tower on Fifth Avenue.
I looked down from the thirty-fourth floor terrace. Marcus was standing in the slush beside the revolving doors, wearing an unpressed overcoat, his hair wild and unkempt. He held a giant bouquet of withered red roses and a cardboard sign that read: SUBEO, I LOVE YOU. PLEASE LET ME SEE MY SON.
Two dozen paparazzi, tipped off by his own desperate PR agent, were snapping photos from across the street. Marcus was staging a public spectacle, trying to use public sympathy to force me out of the building.
Eleanor Cross stepped into the conservatory, her tablet in hand. “He’s claiming to the press that your father kidnapped you and is weaponizing your pregnancy to destroy his business.”
“He thinks I’m still the timid girl who will apologize to avoid making a scene,” I said, standing up and smoothing my warm wool maternity sweater over my stomach. “Call the doorman, Eleanor. Let him up to the private conference floor. But ensure two armed guards and three cameras are rolling.”
Marcus was escorted into the glass-walled conference room five minutes later. He looked haggard, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, smelling of stale coffee and desperation. When he saw me walking in—healthy, glowing, wearing elegant cashmere and surrounded by top-tier legal representatives—his knees nearly buckled.
May you like
“Subeo!” he gasped, lunging forward, but the two security officers instantly stepped between us, their expressions unyielding. “Baby, please! You have to call off your father! The bank seized my townhouse yesterday! My mother had to sell her emerald necklace just to pay her property taxes! They took my cars, Subeo! My friends won't answer my calls! Everyone thinks I’m a monster!”
“You aren't a monster, Marcus,” I said calmly, taking a seat at the far end of the long conference table. “You are simply a small, cruel man who finally has to live without the protection of other people's money.”
