Chapter 8 - The Green Room Storm
The morning of the broadcast arrived with a heavy, relentless New England rain that lashed against the glass windows of the Good Morning Boston studio in downtown Seaport. Inside Green Room B, the air smelled of stale coffee, hairspray, and palpable, electric tension.
Elena sat before the vanity mirror while a makeup artist frantically powdered her cheekbones, her eyes fixed on her reflection with grim determination. I stood nearby, pacing slowly across the plush carpet, clutching the manila folder Arthur had given me against my chest like body armor.
"You're going to wear a hole in that carpet, Alex," Elena said without turning around, though a faint, teasing smile played at the corner of her lips.
"I'm just calculating every possible angle of disaster," I muttered, stopping my pacing to run a hand through my hair. "If the host, Marcus Vance—no relation, thank God—brings up the default divorce before you even get to talk about Little Nests' Series B expansion, the entire interview spirals into a tabloid circus."
"Let it spiral," Elena said, turning around as the makeup artist packed up her kit. She stood up, smoothing the emerald-green silk of her tailored pantsuit, looking every bit the ruthless, brilliant CEO she had become. "We prepared for this. We have our legal team on standby, and we have the truth."
Before I could answer, the heavy door swung open, and a frantic associate producer stuck her head inside. "Mr. Vance, Ms. Vance? You're up in two minutes. Segment three. Right after the commercial break."
My heart hammered against my ribs with sledgehammer force. As we walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the stage, the muffled rumble of the live studio audience vibrated through the floorboards. Just as we reached the heavy velvet curtains framing the entrance, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A text message from an unknown number: Your mother is watching from the penthouse. She just filed an emergency injunction in probate court to freeze your parental visitation rights effective immediately. Turn around now, Alex, or lose them forever.
I froze dead in my tracks, the screen glowing mockingly in the dark corridor. Elena noticed instantly, stopping and turning back to look at me. Her face went pale as she read the panic in my eyes.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper.
"Beatrice," I choked out, holding up the phone. "She filed an emergency injunction. She's weaponizing the court right this second."
For a fraction of a second, I saw terror flicker in Elena’s eyes—the primal fear of a mother whose children were being targeted by a predator with unlimited financial resources. But then, the fear vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying steel.
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"We go out there," Elena said, taking my hand and gripping my fingers so tightly her knuckles turned white. "We sit on that couch, we look into millions of living rooms across New England, and we tell the truth on live television. No injunction can survive the court of public opinion when the entire world knows what she did."
The stage manager raised two fingers, then one, signaling us to move forward. As the heavy velvet curtain parted, flooding our eyes with blinding studio lights and the roar of applause, we stepped out together into the storm.
