Chapter 13 - Drawing the Battle Lines
The air in the study felt suffocatingly thin. For years, I had feared Richard's voice; it had been the soundtrack to my self-doubt, the cold hammer that chipped away at my identity day after day. But as the silence settled over the room, I looked at Claire and Mateo, and I realized something fundamental: I was not the terrified woman in Virginia who signed away her jewelry just to keep her children safe.
"We aren't playing defense," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Not this time."
Mateo’s eyes hardened with approval. "What do you need?"
"Call Duarte," I told Claire, referring to our Lisbon-based corporate attorney who had handled our foreign business incorporation. "Tell him Richard Hale is attempting to use the Portuguese judicial system to enforce a fraudulent foreign claim. And tell him I want immediate protective injunctions against Richard and any private investigators he has operating without a European license."
"On it," Claire said, immediately pulling out her phone and dialing Duarte’s direct line.
Mateo stood up, walking to the antique cabinet in the corner. He pulled out a set of gate surveillance logs and a small remote control. "Our security system records license plates at three hundred yards. That gray Mercedes has been cataloged. In Portugal, unlicensed private surveillance of minors is a criminal offense under Article 199 of the Penal Code. He thinks he can operate here like he did in Virginia with payoffs and good-old-boy handshakes. He doesn't know where he is."
Just then, Sophie appeared in the doorway, dressed in her racing gear. She was twelve now, tall for her age, with a fierce, intuitive intelligence that had only sharpened since we moved. She looked between the papers on the desk, the tense set of my shoulders, and the view out the window.
"Is it him?" she asked plainly.
My breath hitched. I walked across the room, kneeling down to her level. "Sophie, sweetheart—"
"I saw the car yesterday at the track, Mom," Sophie said, her voice completely steady, though her hands clenched around her racing gloves. "A man with an American accent was asking the mechanics about my lap times and who paid for my sponsorship. Was it Dad?"
A wave of nausea swept through me, replaced instantly by an icy, protective fury. "Yes, Sophie. He’s here in Portugal. He thinks he can disrupt our lives."
May you like
Sophie looked at me with eyes so sharp and clear they took my breath away. "He didn't care about my races when we lived ten minutes down the road in Virginia. He only cares because you made us happy without him. Don't let him in this house, Mom."
"Never," I promised, pulling her into a fierce, unbreakable embrace. "Over my dead body."
