Chapter 178

[ 1,029 words ]

Katia’s POV

Sam sent the link at seven AM with no message attached.

Just the link.

That was how I knew it was bad.

I opened it from bed. The magazine was a socialite publication, the kind that existed to document the lives of people who had too much money and not enough privacy. The kind my mother had been reading since before I was born. The kind she had been photographed for three times in the last decade.

The headline was: Behind the Mystery: The Brilliant Kensington Daughter Who Won’t Let Her Family In.

I read the whole thing.

It took seven minutes. Seven minutes of Martha Kensington, quoted extensively, painting a portrait of herself as a patient and loving mother who simply wanted to be close to her daughter. A daughter who was brilliant, yes. Successful, certainly. But reclusive. Private to a fault. Who had a husband nobody had ever met, a ring nobody could explain, and a life she had constructed so carefully that even her own family could not find a way in.

The implication never stated, always present, was that the husband was not real. That the ring was a prop. That Katia Kensington, CEO of IG Technologies, was hiding something significant and her family was worried.

Mama had not mentioned Delia by name, or anyone. She had been careful in the way that people were careful when they wanted to cause maximum damage while maintaining plausible deniability.

I put my phone down.

I got up. Made coffee. Stood at the kitchen window and looked at Brooklyn waking up below me.

Then my phone started.

Dad first. Katia. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was doing this. I only found out this morning.

Then Gail. I just saw it. Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?

Then Sam, now with words: Marcus has already called. He wants to know if you want to pursue defamation. Also Victor’s legal team filed this morning—the IP lawsuit is now officially on record. Also, the IG board chair has seen the article and wants a call. Also, your phone is about to ring from a number you don’t recognise — that’s the editor of the magazine. I gave her your number; you’ll understand why in a moment.

I looked at that message for a long time.

The phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered it.

“Ms. Kensington,” a woman’s voice said. Slightly breathless. The voice of someone who had been handed something unexpected and was trying to manage her own excitement. “This is Claire Hewitt, editor at Monde Social. I’m calling because your—your assistant suggested I reach out directly, and I want to say first that the piece this morning was p>

“Was your publication’s choice to run?” I said pleasantly. “I understand. You had a source. You ran it. That’s your job p>

She didn’t answer immediately. “Yes. I — yes p>

“I’m not calling my lawyers,” I said. “I’m not threatening anything. I’m offering you something better.” I picked up my coffee. “I’ll give you a private interview, on the record. My real story — not my mother’s version of it. Not a publicist’s version. Mine.” I paused. “That will be significantly more interesting than what you published this morning p>

The silence on the other end had the quality of someone trying very hard not to sound as excited as they were.

“When?” she said.

“Give me three weeks,” I said.

“Three weeks,” she repeated. Like she was writing it down before I could change my mind.

“Three weeks,” I confirmed. “My office will be in touch with the details p>

I hung up.

I called Sam back.

“Victor filed this morning,” she said before I could speak.

“I know. How long do we have p>

“The filing starts the clock. We have thirty days before the first hearing,” she said and then went on. “Marcus says our position is strong but not airtight. The gap in Meridian’s documentation—we found something. A timestamp discrepancy on one of Victor’s key exhibits. It is small but it is there p>

“How small p>

“Small enough that a good lawyer could argue either way,” Sam said. “But it exists. Which means his documentation is not as clean as he told you it was p>

“Good,” I said. “Keep pulling p>

“Also,” Sam said, “your mother’s phone has been ringing all morning. Your father apparently told her exactly what he thought of the article, and it was not complimentary p>

I thought about Dad calling Mama at seven in the morning. The quiet fury of a man who had been trying to rebuild a relationship with his daughter and had just watched his wife blow a hole in it for a magazine interview.

“Good,” I said again.

“Are you alright?” Sam said.

I looked at the window. At the city. At the seven unread messages on my phone and the IP lawsuit filed this morning and the magazine article and the editor who was probably already drafting the interview request and the three weeks I had just committed to while managing a thirty-day legal clock and a government contract renewal and a son who was at the Windsor estate learning chess from a woman called Gigi.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Katia p>

“I’m fine, Sam. I just need today to be productive p>

“Your board chair wants a call p>

“Book it for eleven,” I said. “And get Marcus on the timestamp discrepancy. I want a full brief by end of day p>

“Done,” she said. “And your mother p>

I thought about my mother. About seven minutes of reading her quoted words in a socialite magazine. About the ring is a prop and the husband is fictional, and her family was simply worried.

“My mother,” I said, “can wait p>

I hung up.

I finished my coffee.

I got dressed.

I had a lawsuit to fight, an interview to prepare, a board chair to reassure, a timestamp discrepancy to pull apart, and a mother who had just made the tactical error of attacking me publicly.

Martha had wanted attention.

She was going to get it.

Just not the kind she had been expecting.

I picked up my bag and walked out the door.

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