Ben’s response was a blistering curse. “That’s Slovic’s signature. Sling enough mud, some of it will stick. It’s a preemptive strike. He’s trying to rattle you. To get you to make a mistake. Or to force a settlement where he gets something before he reveals this ‘evidence.'”
“Do not respond. Do not acknowledge it. Send me the link and the code now. We’ll have it analyzed. We’ll get a subpoena for his digital records and prove he fabricated it.”
“Ben… he’s questioning Liam’s paternity,” I whispered, the horror of it finally breaking through my shock.
“And we will stop him,” Ben snarled, a rare loss of composure. “We’ll demand a paternity test immediately. We’ll present the results in open court. But Amelia, listen to me. This is what desperate looks like. This is a man with no facts, no money, and no leverage trying to create some.”
“He’s going lower than I anticipated. You cannot engage. You must be a wall.”
I tried to be a wall. But the rocks kept coming.
Over the next 48 hours, the anonymous emails continued. Blurred photos of me having lunch with my divorce lawyer, captioned: Plotting your next move with your attack dog. Old, out-of-context quotes from college friends given to tabloids about my “wild streak” and “ruthless ambition.”
A package arrived at my father’s office containing printouts of my emails with Alex Rosten about funding rounds. Completely professional, but highlighted in yellow to look suspicious.
The pressure was a constant, squeezing vice. I jumped at every notification. I stopped sleeping, watching the baby monitor with a paranoid intensity, imagining Tristan scaling the building, bribing a staff member.
The “Amelia the Unbreakable” persona I’d projected in the Forbes interview felt like a brittle shell, cracking under the sustained, unseen assault.
Ben arrived one afternoon, his face grimmer than usual. He wasn’t alone. With him was a large, quiet man in a suit that did little to conceal his formidable build.
“Amelia, this is Marcus Thorne. Former Secret Service. He runs executive protection for Sinclair Holdings. He’s going to do a security assessment.”
Marcus gave a curt nod. “Ma’am.”
“Based on the escalation in tone and the implied threats in the communications from Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Carter have authorized an upgrade in your personal security. The building’s security is excellent, but it’s designed for privacy, not for a targeted threat. I recommend a dedicated agent stationed in the building 24/7.”
“I also recommend you and your son consider relocating to a more secure, less predictable location for the immediate future.”
“Relocate?” I echoed, a spike of rebellion cutting through the fear. “You mean run? From my own home? No. Absolutely not. I’m not letting him scare me out.”
“It’s not about being scared, Amelia,” Ben interjected, his voice firm. “It’s about being smart. This penthouse is a known quantity. Your routines are being watched. He knows where you are every minute.”
“Marcus is talking about breaking the pattern. Your father has offered the estate in Greenwich. The perimeter security there is a different level entirely. It’s private. It’s vast. And it’s not a location Tristan is familiar with.”
“The estate?” I nearly laughed, but it came out as a strangled sound. “So I’m supposed to go hide in my father’s castle?”
“That’s exactly the narrative Tristan’s lawyer is trying to build. That I’m a puppet. That I’m not capable. That I need Daddy to hide me away. It makes me look weak. It makes me look unstable.”
“It makes you look alive!” Ben’s voice rose, a sharp crack in the quiet room. “Amelia, look at the emails. The man is spiraling. He’s implying paternity fraud. He’s stalking your movements. He’s got nothing left to lose. Desperate people are dangerous people.”
“This isn’t a PR battle anymore. This is a physical security assessment. Your father is not suggesting this to control you. He’s suggesting it because he’s terrified for you and for his grandson.”
The raw fear in Ben’s eyes, usually so carefully masked, hit me harder than any of Tristan’s threats. I looked at Marcus, whose expression was neutral but whose gaze was intent, assessing every window, every door. This was real. The game had changed.
“I… I need to think,” I said, my defiance crumbling into a wave of crushing fatigue.
Later that evening, after Marcus had completed his assessment and posted a discreet but unmistakable guard in the hallway, my phone rang. It was my mother, Eleanor.
I almost didn’t answer. I couldn’t bear another lecture, another dose of practical, ruthless Sinclair logic. But I answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Amelia, darling.” Her voice was calm, a smooth, cool balm after the day’s chaos. “I’ve spoken with Ben. And with your father. I’m not calling to tell you what to do.”
That surprised me. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m calling to ask you a question. What is your primary objective right now? Not as Robert Sinclair’s daughter. Not as the CEO of Ether. As Liam’s mother. What is the one, non-negotiable thing?”
The answer came instantly, from a place deeper than pride, deeper than strategy. “To keep him safe.”
“Exactly,” she said, and I could hear the approval in her voice. “Now, is staying in that apartment, in the heart of Manhattan, where a desperate and vengeful man knows exactly how to find you, the best way to keep him safe? Or is it an act of pride that unnecessarily risks the one thing you value above all else?”
Her words, delivered not as an order but as a Socratic challenge, sliced through my resistance. She wasn’t questioning my strength; she was questioning my strategy.
“He’ll say I’m running. He’ll say I’m hiding.”
“Let him,” Eleanor said, her tone turning flinty. “What does a trapped rat say when the cat moves to a better vantage point? It squeaks. Let him squeak.”
“You will be in Greenwich, in a house with a gate, a wall, and security that would give the president pause. You will be able to sleep. You will be able to breathe. You will be able to think clearly. And from there, you can handle him at your leisure. On your terms. Knowing your child is utterly safe.”
“That, my dear, is not weakness. That is the ultimate power move. It’s choosing the battlefield.”
I was silent, absorbing it. She was right. My insistence on staying was about proving a point to Tristan. To the world. To myself. But proving a point was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Liam’s safety wasn’t.
“Okay,” I whispered, the fight going out of me. “Okay. We’ll come to Greenwich.”
“Good,” she said, her voice softening. “I’ll have everything prepared. You’re not running, Amelia, you’re regrouping. And remember, a Sinclair never cedes the field. We merely reposition for a more advantageous attack.”