Chapter 6 - The Sabotage
When a narcissist realizes his victim is thriving without him, his first reaction is disbelief. His second is absolute, uncontrolled rage.
Forty-eight hours after the Met Gala, my office at the newly renovated Vance Labs headquarters in Soho received a visit from the New York City Child Protective Services.
I was sitting at my desk reviewing clinical trial results when two CPS investigators, accompanied by a police officer, walked through the reception doors.
“Emily Whitmore?” the lead investigator, a stern woman named Agent Miller, asked, flashing her badge.
“It’s Emily Vance,” I said, standing up calmly, my heart leaping into my throat despite my exterior composure. “How can I help you?”
“We received an urgent, anonymous report regarding the welfare of your son, Noah Whitmore,” Agent Miller said, looking around the pristine, modern office. “The report alleges that the child is residing in an unsafe, squalid environment, suffering from medical neglect, and being left unattended for days at a time while you engage in unregulated chemical manufacturing.”
The blood drained from my face, replaced by ice.
*Vanessa.*
She had taken the reality of our first desperate weeks in Astoria—exaggerated, weaponized, and filed it as an emergency claim to have Noah stripped from my custody.
“My son is currently at the St. Jude Arts Academy,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “He is under the supervision of his instructors. You are welcome to inspect his school records, his pediatrician's reports, and my home right now.”
I didn't call a standard attorney. I called Claire Vance—my cousin, and one of the most ruthless family law litigators in the state of New York, whom I had retained the moment Vance Labs hit its first million in revenue.
Within thirty minutes, Claire met us at my Central Park West residence.
Agent Miller and her partner inspected the apartment. They found a sunlit, four-bedroom home filled with books, an art studio stocked with high-end canvases, a pantry overflowing with organic food, and an immaculate medical folder showing Noah was up to date on every vaccine, physical, and dental checkup.
Claire crossed her arms, standing in the doorway of Noah’s bedroom.
“Agent Miller,” Claire said, her voice sharp enough to split wood. “This complaint wasn't anonymous. It was filed from an IP address routed through a boutique marketing firm called *Bell Media Group*—owned by Vanessa Bell, the fiancée of Noah’s estranged father, Grant Whitmore.”
Agent Miller looked down at her notes, visibly embarrassed and furious at having been used as an attack dog in a high-society blood feud.
“Mrs. Vance,” Agent Miller said, closing her binder with a sharp snap. “I apologize for the intrusion. This case is dismissed as malicious and unfounded. We will be referring the filing party to the District Attorney’s office for filing a false emergency report.”
When the investigators left, Claire looked at me.
“Grant is getting desperate, Emily,” Claire said quietly. “*Bell Beauty* opened pre-orders yesterday. They sold less than four hundred units. Meanwhile, your brand was featured on the cover of *The Wall Street Journal* this morning. He’s sinking millions of his firm's capital to keep her vanity project afloat, and his investors are starting to ask questions.”
“He tried to take my son,” I said.
My voice wasn't shaking. It was lower than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
“Emily?” Claire asked, catching the darkness in my eyes.
“He thought he could take Noah from me twice,” I said, walking over to the window, looking out over the autumn trees of Central Park. “He tried it in that boardroom with twenty million dollars. Now he’s using the state to terrorize an eight-year-old boy because his mistress can't sell face cream.”
I turned back to Claire.
“How much Whitmore Holdings stock is currently floating on the secondary private market?”
Claire blinked, stunned. “Emily... Grant’s firm is private equity. But three of his largest institutional partners have put their limited partnership shares up for auction because Grant missed his third-quarter performance covenants.”
“Buy them,” I said.
“Emily, that would require forty million dollars in liquidity—”
“Julian and I just signed the European distribution deal with Sephora Europe,” I said, pulling a signed contract from my desk and laying it in front of her. “They wired a fifty-million-dollar advance this morning.”
I tapped the paper with my finger.
May you like
“Buy the debt, Claire. Buy every scrap of Whitmore Holdings paper on the street. I don't just want to survive Grant Whitmore anymore. I am going to buy him.”
***
