Chapter 7 - The War RoomWithin an hour, Warren’s private security detail had escorted me and the twins to the top-floor bunker of Cole Tower.
The room was dark, lit only by the cold blue glow of multiple wall-mounted monitors displaying live financial feeds, security camera feeds of our home, and the scanned pages of Derek’s custody petition.
Warren stood at the head of the long glass conference table, his sleeves rolled up, his jaw set so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't look angry; he looked like a predator whose den had been violated.
“How?” I asked, my voice shaking as I cradled Maya against my chest while Leo slept soundly in his stroller. “How can Derek do this? He hated me. He wanted nothing to do with them!”
“He doesn't care about the children, Amelia,” Warren said coldly, his silver-blue eyes burning into mine. “He cares about his family's monopoly. The agricultural commissioner is launching a full federal antitrust investigation into the Fontaine grain storage facilities based on the data we gathered at that dinner. Their empire is crumbling. Their stock is tanking. This custody lawsuit is their desperate play to break you psychologically—and to use your relationship with me as leverage to force a settlement.”
“They want to destroy everything I’ve built,” I whispered, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “They want to take my babies.”
Warren walked around the table, stopping just inches from me. He reached out, his warm thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek. His touch anchored me, pulling me back from the edge of panic.
“They will never touch your children, Amelia,” Warren said, his voice a low, gravelly vow that shook the air between us. “I built an empire from the ground up, just like you did. I know how to protect what’s mine. And you and those babies? You are mine.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the bunker burst open.
It wasn't Victoria.
It was Derek Fontaine, flanked by two armed private security guards and his father’s lead bulldog attorney, a slick man in a pinstripe suit named Marcus Vance—no relation to Victoria, but cut from the exact same venomous cloth.
“Well, well, well,” Derek sneered, stepping into the room. He looked thinner, his face flushed with desperate, manic energy. “Playing house with a billionaire, Amelia? Is that why you locked me out? Trading up for a man old enough to be your father?”
Warren didn't blink. He didn't yell.
He simply moved in front of me and the twins, his tall frame shielding us completely, and pressed a silent button under the edge of the conference table.
“You’re trespassing, Derek,” Warren said softly, his voice cutting through the room like a razor. “And you have exactly ten seconds to turn around and walk out that door before my security team throws you out the window.”
“You can't touch me!” Derek laughed, a high, unhinged sound. “I filed a legal petition for custody in Fulton County Superior Court an hour ago! The judge has already ordered a mandatory DNA swab and a temporary restraining order preventing Amelia from leaving the state with my children!”
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He pulled a folded legal document from his breast pocket and waved it triumphantly.
“She’s a fraud, Warren! And those kids carry my blood. You can buy all the kitchens and stocks you want, but you’re raising my bastards!”
