Chapter 13: The Media Storm Brews
By sunrise the next morning, the crisp ocean air of the Hamptons was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a commercial news van idling down our private coastal access road.
I stood on the second-floor balcony of the master suite, holding a mug of hot black coffee, watching a sleek black van bearing the logo of Metro Scandal TV pull up just outside the outer security gates. A reporter with a handheld microphone and a cameraman hopped out, positioning themselves dramatically right in front of the iron bars.
Behind them, stepping out of a silver sedan, was Victoria.
She looked entirely different from the shattered woman who had surrendered her keys at the penthouse two days before. She had put her armor back on—wearing an immaculate white Chanel trench coat, dark oversized designer sunglasses, and her hair styled in its usual flawless, intimidating blowout. She wanted the public to see a grieving, victimized mother fighting against a cold, ungrateful daughter.
My phone chimed on the small iron table beside me. It was a text from Michael Levin:
Security has locked the perimeter gates. NYPD local precinct has been notified of an unauthorized press intrusion and trespassing risk. Do you want us to handle her, or do you want to make a statement?
I typed back quickly:
Hold off the police for five minutes, Michael. Let her play her hand.
I walked back inside, smoothed down my simple navy blue blazer, and walked down the grand staircase just as Eleanor was rolling her wheelchair out of the elevator.
"I hear our favorite uninvited guest has arrived," Eleanor said calmly, her eyes sharp and amused.
"She brought a tabloid crew," I said, pouring a glass of water from the kitchen cart. "She wants to try and win back in the court of public opinion what she lost in the legal arena."
"Let her try," Eleanor smiled, taking a sip of water. "Never interrupt an enemy while they are making a fatal mistake."
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the front foyer, we could see Victoria gesturing dramatically toward the camera. The reporter was nodding with fake solemnity, holding the mic up as Victoria began to weep on cue, dabbing at her dry eyes with a silk handkerchief.
I walked right up to the heavy oak front door, unlocked the deadbolt with a loud, satisfying click, and pulled the door open wide.
I didn't step outside. I stood right in the threshold, bathed in the natural light of the foyer, looking down the long cobblestone drive toward the gates where Victoria and her camera crew were standing.
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Even from fifty yards away, Victoria froze the second she saw the front door open.
She lowered her handkerchief, her jaw tightening beneath her sunglasses. She thought I would hide inside, trembling. She didn't expect me to look her dead in the eye, completely calm, holding all the cards.
