Chapter 4 - The Counter-Attack
The federal detainer was a massive blow to Doña Victoria’s strategy, but a woman who had ruled Virginia’s high society for forty years did not collapse easily. By noon the following day, the narrative in the local newspapers had completely warped.
A prominent public relations firm hired by Victoria’s estate released a statement to the press. The articles portrayed Victoria as a tragic, grieving mother who had fallen victim to a sophisticated digital scammer who sent her a fake death notice about her son. The story claimed that Victoria, in her immense grief and confusion, had rushed to protect her grandson because she believed her daughter-in-law, Elena, was too emotionally fragile to handle the tragic news alone.
The heated iron? A complete fabrication by an "unstable, paranoid woman" who had suffered a nervous breakdown during her pregnancy.
I sat on the living room rug, surrounded by baby clothes I had been sorting through, staring at the newspaper headline on my phone. “Tragedy and Confusion: The Fall of the Vance Matriarch or a Family’s Mental Health Crisis?”
"They're trying to discredit you publicly before the federal grand jury even meets," Alejandro said, walking into the room with a basket of fresh laundry. He dropped to his knees beside me, pulling the phone from my hand and tossing it onto the sofa. "Don't read it, Elena. It’s noise. It’s a dying animal thrashing in the dark."
"But everyone in town is reading it, Alejandro," I said, my voice cracking. "The women from the charity board, the neighbors... they’re looking at our house like I’m the monster who tore a mother away from her son."
"Then we change the venue," Alejandro said, his eyes narrowing into two sharp slits of obsidian. "Victoria wants to use the media? We will use the court of record. Major Reed just finalized the deposition schedule. Because she used a federal computer token to execute this fraud, her entire digital footprint is subject to public disclosure during the preliminary hearing on Friday."
"Am I going to have to testify?" I asked, looking down at my belly. The stress was starting to cause dull, aching Braxton-Hicks contractions that made me wince.
Alejandro noticed my discomfort immediately. He placed his large hand over my stomach, feeling the tight muscle beneath the fabric. "No. I won't let you step foot in that courtroom. You stay here, in our fortress. I will be your voice, Elena. I am going to walk into that federal building on Friday, and I am going to read every single line of her handwritten notes into the public record."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. "She thought she was dealing with an orphan girl she could crush with her pearls. She forgot that she raised a soldier who knows exactly how to clear an enemy position."
By Thursday evening, the physical symptoms of my stress had escalated. The local midwife, a kind elder woman named Maria who had known my family for years, arrived at the house to check on me. She hooked up a portable fetal monitor, the steady, rhythmic sound of our son's heartbeat filling the room like a beautiful, comforting drum.
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"The baby is fine, Elena," Maria said, looking at me over her glasses with deep empathy. "But your blood pressure is dangerously high. You are holding the weight of this entire war in your chest. If you don't find a way to let the anger go, your body is going to force this labor early, and at thirty-four weeks, we want him to stay inside just a little longer."
Alejandro stood by the door, his arms folded across his chest, his expression dark with a protective fury. He looked at the monitor, then at me. "Tomorrow," he whispered, his voice an iron promise. "Tomorrow, I finish this."
