Chapter 7 - THE STAGED ACCIDENTThe retaliation didn't come in a courtroom. It came at seventy miles per hour on the interstate.
Two days after the board meeting, Warren had insisted on taking me to a pediatric checkup for Clara and Leo in his personal armored Mercedes. He stayed in the car while Martha and I took the twins inside the clinic, insisting his security detail remain within arm's reach at all times.
On the way back, as we merged onto the I-85 connector, a massive black semi-truck with no company markings drifted without warning from the middle lane directly into our path, slamming its brakes.
Our driver, a seasoned ex-special forces operative named Hayes, reacted with blinding speed, whipping the wheel hard to the right.
The Mercedes fishtailed, tires screaming against the asphalt, smashing hard into the concrete median barrier with a deafening screech of metal and shattered glass.
In the back seat, holding both car seats tight against my chest as the vehicle spun, I screamed—not a hospital scream of pain, but a mother’s primal shriek of terror.
The truck didn't stop. It accelerated, disappearing into the Atlanta traffic before the smoke from our burning tires had even cleared.
Hayes kicked his door open, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, his weapon already drawn as he scanned the highway. "Boss! You good back there?"
"We're fine," Warren’s voice came from the front passenger seat, cold, hard, completely devoid of panic. He turned around immediately, his eyes frantic as they searched my face and then the car seats. "Amelia? The twins?"
"We're okay," I gasped, tears streaming down my face as Clara began to wail and Leo let out a sharp, frightened cry. "We're safe."
Warren’s face hardened into a mask of pure, glacial fury. He pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, punched a single speed-dial button, and spoke with a terrifying calm.
"Find the truck," Warren said into the phone. "Get the plate numbers from every traffic camera between here and the Alabama border. And tell our legal team to amend the Fontaine family injunction. We're no longer asking for a restraining order. We're filing for attempted corporate and physical intimidation."
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He hung up, turned around in his seat, and gently touched my cheek, his thumb wiping away a smudge of soot from my skin.
"It's over for them," Warren whispered, his voice like frost. "They just crossed a line they can't come back from."
