Chapter 4 - THE SUBPOENAThe legal envelope didn't take long to find us in Buckhead.
By Tuesday morning—less than forty-eight hours after we moved into the estate—a courier in a sharp gray suit had bypassed the front gate by using a local sheriff’s badge to demand entry, only to be intercepted by Warren’s head of security before he even reached the fountain.
Warren came into the sunroom where I was nursing Leo while Martha heated a bottle of formula for Clara. He held a thick manila folder in one hand, his face expressionless.
"They're moving fast," Warren said, tossing the folder onto the glass-topped table.
I looked down at the documents protruding from the flap. PETITION FOR PATERNITY, CUSTODY, AND INJUNCTIVE RELIEF.
"They're asking for joint physical custody," I read, my voice shaking as my eyes scanned the legal jargon. "And an emergency injunction to prevent me from 'relocating the minors outside the jurisdiction of Fulton County'—they know I'm here."
"Of course they know," Warren said, pouring himself a cup of black coffee from the silver pot Martha had left. "Derek’s father’s estate lawyers have contacts in every hospital, police precinct, and municipal office between here and Savannah. The moment your discharge paperwork was filed, their radar pinged."
"They want my babies, Warren," I whispered, the reality crashing down with the force of a tidal wave. "They're the Fontaine family. They have judges in their pocket, politicians on their speed dial, and enough money to bury me in motions until Clara and Leo are in high school."
Warren took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on me over the rim of the cup.
"They have money," Warren agreed calmly. "So do I."
"It's not just about money! I'm not married to him. In Georgia, unmarried mothers have sole custody initially, but if he files for legitimation—"
"He already has," Warren interrupted smoothly. "The paperwork was filed yesterday afternoon at 4:15 PM. His lawyers are claiming that you concealed the pregnancy in bad faith and that you are an unstable, transient individual living in substandard housing."
I stared at him, horrified. "Substandard housing? I worked seventy hours a week to pay my rent!"
"I know," Warren said, stepping closer and placing a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. The touch grounded me, stopping the frantic spin of my thoughts. "Which is why we aren't going to fight them in a standard family court using legal aid lawyers who get overwhelmed by corporate retainers."
"Then what are we going to do?"
Warren walked over to the French doors, looking out toward the gates where the morning mist was just beginning to burn off the manicured lawns.
"We're going to change the jurisdiction," Warren said quietly. "And we're going to give Derek Fontaine something else to worry about before he even steps foot in a courtroom."
"Like what?"
May you like
Warren turned around, a slow, dangerous smile touching the corner of his mouth—not warm, but the look of a predator who had just cornered its prey.
"Derek’s father left behind a conglomerate worth four hundred million dollars," Warren said. "And eighty percent of it is leveraged against loans from Cole Capital."
