Chapter 4 - The Ambush at the St. Regis
At 4:00 p.m. that afternoon, the heavy oak doors of my private suite at the St. Regis were rattled by a loud, demanding knock.
Marcus, my head of security, pulled up the live feed from the hallway camera on his tablet and showed it to me.
Standing in the hallway were Ryan, Evelyn, and a cheap, aggressive ambulance-chaser attorney named Gregory Vance (no relation to my family) whom Ryan had hired using the last five thousand dollars he borrowed from a loan shark.
Evelyn was holding a basket of cheap baby clothes, trying to look like a concerned, loving grandmother, while Ryan was wearing a wrinkled suit, trying to look like a desperate, heartbroken father.
“Let them in,” I said smoothly, setting down my tablet.
“Ms. Vance,” Marcus warned gently, “they have a process server with them.”
“I know,” I smiled softly. “Let them in, Marcus. It’s time to close the curtain on this comedy.”
Marcus stepped over, unlocked the double doors, and pulled them open.
Evelyn pushed past Marcus immediately, bursting into the foyer with high-pitched, theatrical dramatic flair.
“Elle! Oh, my poor sweet girl!” Evelyn wailed, reaching out her arms as if to embrace me. “We came as soon as we heard! Ryan told me everything! You’re sick, darling! You’re overwhelmed! Raising twins while trying to manage a company is too much for your delicate state! We’re here to help you!”
I was sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, nursing my son Leo. I didn't get up. I didn't look startled. I simply looked at her with a quiet, icy gaze that made Evelyn’s fake tears freeze right on her cheeks.
Ryan stepped up behind his mother, holding his phone in his jacket pocket, attempting to secretly record the interaction.
“Elle,” Ryan said, his voice sounding thick with forced emotional pain. “I know you’re angry at me. I know you’re trying to hurt me because of a few foolish words I said when I was tired. But you can't keep my children away from me! You’re unstable, Elle! You’ve locked yourself in a hotel room! Look at you—you’re paranoid, you’re hiring bodyguards... this isn't safe for Leo and Maya!”
The attorney, Gregory Vance, stepped forward, pulling a thick envelope from his briefcase.
“Ms. Vance,” the attorney blustered, trying to sound authoritative. “I am serving you with an emergency petition for temporary emergency custody of the minors, Leo and Maya Collins. My client, Mr. Collins, asserts that your current mental instability, secret financial hoards, and manipulative behaviors pose an immediate emotional and physical risk to—”
“Gregory,” I interrupted quietly.
The attorney stopped mid-sentence.
“Your law license was suspended in 2021 for commingling client funds in an offshore escrow account,” I said, picking up a white folder from the side table and tossing it onto the coffee table in front of him. “You currently owe three hundred thousand dollars to a gambling syndicate in Atlantic City. And if you take another step into my suite, my legal team will file a formal complaint with the State Bar Ethics Committee before five o’clock today.”
Gregory’s face went completely gray. He looked down at the white folder, which contained his complete confidential financial audit, then looked back at me in utter terror.
He stepped back two feet, clutching his briefcase against his chest like a shield.
“Now,” I turned my attention to Evelyn and Ryan.
“You came here to record me,” I said, pointing to the bulge in Ryan’s jacket pocket. “You thought you could provoke a sleep-deprived mother into screaming, capture it on video, and sell a narrative of 'postpartum psychosis' to a family court judge so you could milk my estate for child support.”
Ryan’s jaw dropped. “How... how did you...”
“Did you really think,” I said, standing up gently, laying sleeping Leo into his crib beside his sister, “that a woman who built a four-billion-dollar private intelligence and logistics enterprise would be outsmarted by a man who couldn't even manage his own department’s expense reports?”
I pressed a button on my desk console.
The double doors of the inner suite opened.
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Stepping into the room was Judge Margaret Hamilton—a legendary, highly respected former Chief Justice of the State Family Court, flanked by two court-appointed child welfare evaluators and Arthur Pendelton.
Ryan’s phone slipped out of his hand, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
