Chapter 7 - The Media StormThe media circus outside the Manhattan family courthouse at 8:30 AM the next morning was deafening. Flashes from dozens of cameras cut through the damp morning fog like lightning bolts. Microphones were shoved toward every person stepping out of sleek black town cars.
Julian Vance stood on the courthouse steps, flanked by two high-priced attorneys. He wore an expensive bespoke suit, his face contrived into an expression of profound, sorrowful grief.
“I am simply an uncle trying to protect my late sister’s child,” Julian told reporters, playing perfectly to the rolling cameras. “My nephew has been subjected to profound isolation, psychological neglect, and instability within the James household. No child should be hidden away in a penthouse while his father pursues corporate dominance. Today, I am asking the court to grant me emergency custody for Alex’s safety and well-being.”
A chorus of shutters clicked furiously. Reporters shouted overlapping questions about corporate corruption, parental fitness, and the mysterious disappearance of the boy’s voice.
Across the street, parked in the tinted interior of an armored Mercedes SUV, Andrew watched the broadcast on his phone screen. His jaw was clenched so tight muscles ticked along his cheek.
“He’s playing the grieving uncle card,” Marcus muttered from the driver’s seat. “The board is watching this live right now, boss. If we don’t move in three minutes, the vote goes through.”
Andrew turned his head. Sitting beside him in the back seat was Elizabeth. She wore a sharp, elegant charcoal blazer over a simple black dress. Her hair was pulled back into a sophisticated chignon, completely erasing the disguise of the humble housekeeper. She looked every bit the elite clinical professional she once was.
In the middle seat sat Alex, dressed in a crisp little navy blue blazer and khakis. He looked nervous, his small fingers tightly clutching his worn stuffed bear, but he was calm.
“Are you ready, buddy?” Elizabeth asked softly, turning to the boy and adjusting his collar.
Alex looked up at her, then glanced at his father. For a fraction of a second, hesitation flickered in his eyes. But then he remembered the flour. He remembered the snow angel. He remembered the safety of the kitchen floor.
“I’m ready, Mama El,” Alex said clearly.
Andrew felt a lump form in his throat. He reached across the console and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. Her skin was cool, steady, and grounding. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For all of it.”
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“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. James,” Elizabeth replied with a tight, confident smile. “It’s time to crash a party.”
The SUV pulled away from the curb, driving straight toward the front steps of the courthouse, right into the path of the blinding cameras.
