Chapter 3 - The Cold War
Two weeks later, the public narrative had been successfully warped by Julian’s PR machine. Headlines screamed about the "Unstable Former Spouse" and her "delusional claims." He was trying to frame me as a woman scorned, suffering from postpartum psychosis.
He thought he was controlling the narrative. He didn't realize I was feeding it.
Every time he leaked a story to the press, I fed him a digital breadcrumb—a fake lead that sent his frantic lawyers chasing ghosts. While they were busy scrubbing servers and silencing whistleblowers, I was liquidating my own meager savings to fund a private security firm specializing in digital counter-surveillance.
I sat in my apartment—a cramped, grey studio that Julian wouldn't even deem a closet—watching the live stock market feed. The Vance Industries ticker began to dip, just a fraction at first, a ripple in a vast ocean.
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"He's going to come here, isn't he?" my sister, Clara, asked from the doorway, her eyes wide with terror. She was the only person who knew I had the hard drive.
"He'll come," I said, calmly rocking the baby. "And when he walks through that door, he won't be coming to negotiate. He'll be coming to finish what he started at the hospital. But he’s going to find out that I’ve spent the last fourteen days turning this room into a sanctuary for his downfall."
