“I’ve spoken to both CEOs,” my father continued, his voice devoid of all warmth. “They were distressed to hear about Tristan’s personal conduct and its potential to reflect poorly on their brands. Given his role as a representative, both contracts are being terminated for convenience. Effective immediately. Email notifications will go out at 9:00 a.m. Eastern.”
I sucked in a breath. It was brutal, surgical, and executed from 5,000 m away in the middle of the night.
“Furthermore,” Robert went on, “the lease on his office space in Midtown is held by a Sinclair real estate trust. The property management company has been instructed to serve a notice of lease termination for violation of morality clauses. He’ll have 30 days to vacate.”
Ben was nodding, a faint smile on his lips. “We’ll add that to the financial pressure. With his income streams severed and his personal access to liquidity frozen by morning, he’ll be feeling a significant pinch.”
“I don’t want him to feel a pinch, Ben,” my father said, and the ice in his voice could have frozen the room. “I want him to feel a vice. Tighten it. Amelia, are you listening?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“This is the first move. He will panic. He will get angry. He will say things, try things. You do not engage. You are a black hole. You give him nothing. Ben and his team are your voice, your shield. You look after my grandson. Let us handle the rest. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The call ended. The silence that followed was charged.
Ben looked at me. “He’s not playing. Amelia, you need to be ready for what comes next. Tristan isn’t going to get a text about a frozen account and slink away. He’s going to come here and he’s going to be furious.”
As if on Q, my phone buzzed again. Not a call this time. A text.
“I’m outside the building. My key fob isn’t working. What the hell is going on? Amelia, let me in now.”
Then the intercom from the building lobby buzzed. A harsh insistent sound.
We all looked at the panel. Ben walked over to it.
“Don’t speak,” he instructed me. He pressed the button. “Yes?”
Tristan’s voice, crackling with static and fury, exploded into the room. “Who is this? Where’s Amelia? Amelia, open the godamn door. The doorman won’t let me up. And my fob is dead. What kind of game are you playing?”
“Mr. Blackwood,” Ben said, his voice a model of calm, professional neutrality, “this is Benjamin Carter of Carter Thorne Associates, representing Amelia Sinclair. I’m advising you that you are not to attempt to gain access to this residence at this time.”
There was a stunned silence from the intercom, then a disbelieving, half hysterical laugh.
“Carter? What? Ben, what are you— Put Amelia on the phone right now. This is insane.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Mr. Blackwood. You have been served via digital delivery to your phone and email with several legal documents, including a temporary order of protection requiring you to stay at least 500 ft away from Miss Sinclair and the minor child, Liam Sinclair Blackwood, and granting her exclusive use of the marital residence. Any attempt to make contact or gain access will be a violation of a court order. I strongly suggest you review the documents and contact your own legal counsel.”
Another silence. This one was different, thicker, more dangerous.
When Tristan’s voice came back, it was lower, dripping with venom. “You— You set me up. You and that [ __ ] and her [ __ ] father. You think you can lock me out of my own home with my son? I’ll have your law license, Carter. I’ll burn it all down. Let me talk to my wife.”
Ben’s voice didn’t waver. “Your access to the joint financial accounts has also been suspended pending a full audit due to concerns about the commingling and potential misuse of marital assets. Again, I advise you to seek legal representation. Further communication should be directed to my office. Good night, Mr. Blackwood.”
Ben released the intercom button, cutting off the beginning of a stream of inarticulate shouts. The room was silent again, the echo of Tristan’s rage seeming to hang in the air.
My heart was hammering against my ribs. I’d never heard him sound like that. Ever.
My phone started ringing again. Tristan. Then again and again.
Ben looked at David. “Is the process server in position?”
David checked his phone. “Yes, he’s in the lobby. He’ll serve the hard copies the moment Mr. Blackwood turns away from the intercom.”
Ben nodded, then looked at me. His expression softened just a fraction.
“The first wave has landed. Amelia, he’s on the outside now. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. You need to sleep, or try to. We’ll be here. Clara will stay in the guest room. The rest of us will be right outside in the hallway. The building security has been fully briefed. He’s not getting within 50 floors of you.”
I just nodded, numb. I walked back to the bedroom on unsteady legs.
Liam was still sleeping, peacefully, unaware of the siege happening just outside his door. I lay down on the bed, still in my clothes, and stared at the ceiling.
The phone on the nightstand finally stopped ringing. A minute later, a single text came through.
I didn’t want to look, but I had to. The message was just two words, but they chilled me to my core.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an apology.
It was a declaration of war from a man who suddenly had nothing left to lose.
“You’ll regret this.”
The silence after the intercom went dead was absolute, but it thrummed with a new kind of tension. The shockwave of Tristan’s final snarled threat, “You’ll regret this,” seemed to hang in the air conditioned stillness of the penthouse.
It wasn’t just anger. It was a promise. Cold and stark.
Ben Carter’s face was grim as he turned from the intercom panel. “Right on schedule,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone.
He looked at me, his professional mask back in place, but his eyes held a glint of warning.
“The rage is predictable. The threat is not. We take it seriously. Clara, add that to the file. Document the exact time and the wording from the intercom and the text. David, notify building security that Mr. Blackwood’s threats have escalated. Instruct them that under no circumstances is he to be granted access to the building, even the lobby, and any attempt at forced entry should result in an immediate call to 911 and the NYPD’s threat management unit. Cite the active order of protection and the presence of an infant.”
“On it,” David said, already typing on his phone.
“Amelia.” Ben’s voice brought me back from the edge of the cold dread that was seeping into my bones. “The next phase begins now. While he’s out there scrambling, we’re in here digging. We need to know everything. Every password, every safe, every file, his laptop, his desktop, any personal papers he kept here. We’re looking for leverage, for hidden assets, for anything that gives us a clearer picture of who we’re really dealing with.”
I nodded. The numbness receding under a surge of adrenaline. Action was better than fear.
“His office, the den.”
