At the airport, they abandoned me; a billionaire whispered a lie Trust me they’ll regret it!
«Joyce? Oh my God, where have you been? Your parents called me three times already.»
I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the phone tighter. «I’m safe. In New York, actually. What did they say?»
Diane hesitated, then sighed. «They told me you had some kind of breakdown at the airport in Paris. They said the stress from the divorce finally caught up, that you were acting paranoid, accusing them of things, and then just walked off without saying where you were going. They’re painting it like you’re not thinking clearly, that you might hurt yourself or make bad decisions with money.»
My stomach twisted. «That’s not what happened. They canceled my ticket, took my phone.»
«I believe you,» she cut in gently. «But they’re not stopping there. Your mom mentioned getting legal help to protect you from yourself. Something about filing for temporary conservatorship.»
«They zeroed in on the condo grandma and grandpa left you? The one in Manhattan?»
«Said if you’re unstable, someone needs to manage it before you do something reckless.»
The words hit like ice water. The condo was my only real inheritance, a two-bedroom in a prime building worth millions now, specifically deeded to me because my grandparents knew how hard I’d worked. «They’re trying to take control of it.»
«From what I overheard when your dad put me on speaker briefly, yes. They’re gathering statements, old emails where you vented about stress after the divorce, maybe doctor visits for anxiety.»
In New York, conservatorship isn’t automatic, but if they show evidence of incapacity, like an inability to manage affairs, a judge could appoint a guardian temporarily. I stood up, pacing the room. At first, doubt crept in. Had my post-divorce meltdowns been that bad? I’d canceled plans last minute, withdrawn sometimes.
But then clarity sharpened. This was calculated, building on real vulnerabilities to twist the narrative.
«Diane, can you forward anything they’ve sent you? Emails, documents?»
«Already on it,» she said, and my phone buzzed with incoming messages, screenshots of drafts, and a list of concerns they’d compiled.
I scanned them quickly, anger replacing any self-doubt. They weren’t worried about me. They were positioning themselves as saviors to seize assets. I thanked Diane, promised updates, and hung up.
The penthouse was quiet as I headed downstairs, finding Alexander in a modern office off the living area, reviewing papers. «I need to talk,» I said directly, stepping in.
He looked up, setting aside his work. «Everything okay?»
«No.» I handed him the phone to show the screenshots. «My family isn’t just upset; they’re building a case for conservatorship. They are using my divorce stress as proof I’m incompetent to handle my own finances, especially the condo inheritance.»
Alexander scrolled through, his expression turning serious. «This is sophisticated. In New York, it’s not like California; conservatorships here are rarer for adults without severe cognitive issues, but possible if they prove grave risk to property or self. They’re smart not to claim disappearance. Framing it as a mental health concern makes it harder to dismiss outright.»
I nodded, leaning against the desk. «We need to counter this fast. Use your lawyer to file something preemptive, maybe an affidavit of competency, or block any petitions.»
He didn’t hesitate. «Martin Coleman. He’s the best for asset protection. I’ll call him now.»
Within an hour, Martin arrived, a sharp man in his 50s, briefcase in hand. He listened as I explained, reviewing the forwarded evidence on a secure tablet. «They’re laying groundwork,» Martin said. «But we can respond aggressively. Medical evaluation if needed, financial records showing competent management. I’ll draft opposition papers tonight.»
Alexander added quietly, «Nathan’s pulling similar tactics on me, questioning my capacity based on grief, so we’re both vulnerable here. Full transparency: my position isn’t ironclad yet.»
That admission grounded things. I wasn’t aligning with someone untouchable. We were both fighting parallel battles. As Martin left with instructions, I returned upstairs and opened the laptop Elena had provided. I pulled up New York guardianship laws, reading about requirements for petitions, hearings, and independent evaluators.
For the first time, waiting wasn’t an option. I had to arm myself with knowledge. Sitting there in the quiet room, the screen glowing in the dim light, a shift settled deep inside. Protecting what was mine meant acting now, not hoping others would.
The gala planning kicked into high gear from the moment Alexander assembled his core team in the penthouse conference room. Spreadsheets and vendor contracts covered the table, coffee steaming in mugs as everyone dove in. I didn’t wait to be asked.
«Mind if I take a look at the program timeline?» I said, pulling a chair up beside the lead coordinator. She slid it over without question.
Within minutes, I spotted overlaps: two keynote speakers scheduled too close, risking delays that could ripple through the entire evening. «This needs shifting,» I pointed out, marking adjustments with quick notes. «Move the auction segment earlier. It energizes the crowd before dinner.»
The coordinator raised an eyebrow but nodded. Alexander watched from across the table, saying nothing yet, clearly noting the change. By the end of that first meeting, I’d restructured the guest seating to avoid awkward placements, putting rival developers far apart while grouping potential partners near each other for natural networking.
When a major sponsor emailed concerns about committing fully, citing whispers of instability in Alexander’s leadership, I asked to see the thread. Reading the exchanges, I drafted a response on the spot: personalized, acknowledging their long history with the company, while highlighting upcoming projects with solid projections.
«Send this,» I told the team. «It addresses the doubt without defensiveness.»
The sponsor replied positively within hours, increasing their pledge. Alexander pulled me aside afterward. «You’re making yourself indispensable.»
«Good,» I replied. «Because I’m not here to stand pretty.»
He gave a short laugh, the first real one I’d heard from him. From then on, he looped me into every decision. I took charge of the reception area layout next, walking the hotel venue myself to map flow, ensuring entry points avoided bottlenecks, and placing signature displays where they’d catch eyes immediately upon arrival. Coordinating with the lighting crew, I insisted on warmer tones for the cocktail hour, transitioning to cooler spotlights during speeches to keep energy focused.
Alexander opened up more during late sessions. One evening, reviewing budget overruns, he admitted a recent investment flop—a property deal pushed through too quickly after his wife’s death.
«Nathan is circling it as proof I’m not thinking straight,» he said, rubbing his temple. «He’s right that grief clouded things, but wrong about my ability to recover.»
I leaned forward. «Then show recovery. Pull projections for the next quarter, highlight corrections already in motion.»
He considered it, then incorporated my suggestion into the board update. We rehearsed public appearances relentlessly, walking into mock rooms arm in arm, fielding imagined questions from reporters. Our cover story—meeting at a real estate conference in Chicago years ago—felt scripted at first.
«Too stiff,» I said after one run-through. «Make it casual. I was handling event logistics for the venue; you complained about the coffee. We bonded over bad catering horror stories.»
Alexander tried it, adding his own twist about spilling said coffee on my notes. It landed naturally and even drew a genuine smile from him.
As deadlines tightened, I handled vendor escalations personally, negotiating with the florist when deliveries ran late and calming the caterer over last-minute dietary requests from VIPs. Alexander deferred to my calls more often, trusting the instincts honed from years managing high-stakes corporate events.
The night before the gala, I ran a final walkthrough at the venue alone, checklist in hand. Every detail aligned: signage positioned perfectly, tech rehearsals flawless, contingency plans for weather or no-shows locked in.
Back at the penthouse, trying on the gown Elena had helped select—elegant navy silk that fit like it was made for me—I caught my reflection. The woman staring back moved with purpose. Eyes sharp. Work had pulled me out of survival mode into something stronger: control earned through competence. Tomorrow’s event wasn’t just Alexander’s test. It was mine too.
The grand ballroom of the Manhattan Hotel buzzed with anticipation as Alexander and I stepped through the entrance, cameras flashing from the step-and-repeat backdrop. We moved together seamlessly, his hand lightly at my back. My smile was practiced but genuine enough to pass scrutiny.
Guests in tuxedos and gowns mingled under crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking while a string quartet played softly in the corner. Everything felt aligned until midway through cocktails when Alexander’s phone vibrated with an alert from his PR team. A tabloid had just republished old rumors about his instability post-widowhood, quoting an «anonymous source close to the company,» claiming recent deals showed poor judgment.
