Chapter 10 Lawyer's Counterattack

# Chapter 10: Lawyer's Counterattack

The morning after the gala, the penthouse existed in a state of suspended tension. Staff moved quietly through the rooms, cleaning up evidence of the previous night's festivities while avoiding eye contact. News of my wine-throwing incident had clearly spread through the household, marking me as either unstable or soon-to-be-fired in their estimation.

I took breakfast in my quarters, reviewing the video files I'd obtained from Lucas's apartment. The footage of my assault was horrific enough, but the folder labeled "E.A. Evidence" had proven even more disturbing. It contained surveillance footage of Elliot over the years—in his room, in therapy sessions, even in the bathroom—compiled as some sort of leverage against the boy. Several clips showed him speaking when he thought he was alone, undermining the family's claims about his condition.

Why would Lucas keep such recordings of his brother? The answer seemed clear: insurance. If Elliot ever decided to speak about what he'd witnessed, Lucas had evidence to discredit him as a liar who had been faking his condition.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I quickly locked my laptop and opened the door to find Elliot, face pale with urgency. He thrust a note into my hand:

*Winton called an emergency meeting. They're coming for you. 10 minutes.*

"What do they know?" I asked quietly.

He pulled out his notebook, writing quickly: *Lucas knows someone was in his apartment. Security footage.*

My heart sank. I'd been careful, but clearly not careful enough. "Did they see my face?"

He shook his head, then wrote: *Corrupted file. But timing matches your absence.*

Small mercies. "What's their plan?"

*Confrontation. Evidence collection. Police possibly.*

I took a deep breath, calculating options. I wasn't ready for a full exposure yet—my revenge had barely begun. I needed more time.

"Where are they meeting?"

*Father's office. Now.*

I nodded, quickly formulating a strategy. "I need you to do something. Can you create another distraction? Something to separate Winton from the others?"

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He considered this, then wrote: *Medical emergency again? Too suspicious.*

"No, something different." I thought quickly. "The security footage—can you access it? Delete it completely?"

He nodded.

"Do it now. That buys us time." I moved to my closet, selecting a modest blue dress—the picture of professional innocence. "And Elliot? Be ready to run if this goes badly."

His eyes widened slightly, but he nodded again before slipping away. I applied minimal makeup, arranged my hair into a simple ponytail, and steeled myself for battle. If they wanted to come for me, they'd find I wasn't as easy to destroy as the girl they'd left bleeding in a bathroom three years ago.

I was halfway to Albert's office when Lucas intercepted me in the hallway, his expression thunderous.

"Going somewhere, Claire? Or should I call you something else?"

I maintained a puzzled expression. "Good morning to you too, Lucas. I'm heading to check on Elliot after his episode last night."

He stepped closer, blocking my path. "Funny coincidence—someone broke into my apartment during the party. Right around the time you caused that scene with the wine."

"That's terrible," I replied with practiced concern. "Was anything taken?"

"Hard to say." His eyes narrowed. "But they knew exactly what they were looking for."

"How unsettling for you." I attempted to step around him, but he gripped my arm, fingers digging painfully into my flesh.

"Let's cut the bullshit," he hissed. "Who are you working for? Which of my father's competitors sent you?"

I yanked my arm free. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't appreciate being manhandled, Lucas."

"You think you're clever, don't you?" His voice dropped lower. "Coming in here with your fake credentials and mysterious background. I knew there was something off about you from the beginning."

"The only thing 'off' is your sense of entitlement," I replied coldly. "Now excuse me."

"This isn't over," he called after me as I walked away. "Not even close."

I kept my pace steady until I rounded the corner, then leaned against the wall, heart hammering. Lucas was suspicious but still in the dark—he hadn't connected me to Cynthia Zhang, just to the break-in. I still had room to maneuver.

Approaching Albert's office, I heard raised voices—Albert's and Winton's, locked in heated argument. I paused outside, listening.

"—cannot ignore the coincidences, Albert," Winton was saying. "First her background discrepancies, then the wine incident with that cryptic comment about burning skin, now the break-in. She's not who she claims to be."

"You're seeing conspiracies everywhere," Albert replied dismissively. "So she embellished her resume—half the executives in my company did the same. The wine was an accident, and you have no proof connecting her to Lucas's break-in."

"The security footage—"

"Is inconclusive at best. Besides, why would my son's tutor be interested in his private files?"

"That's what we need to find out," Winton insisted. "Let me bring in my security team. We'll have answers within hours."

"And create a scandal in the process? No. I won't have the staff interrogated like criminals."

"This isn't about the staff. It's about her."

I chose that moment to knock, silencing their argument. After a beat, Albert called, "Enter."

I stepped into the office with an expression of innocent confusion. "You wanted to see me?"

Albert stood behind his desk, Winton beside him with a folder I assumed contained their "evidence" against me. Lucas lounged in a corner chair, watching me with predatory focus.

"Ms. Fontaine," Albert began formally, "certain concerns have been raised that we need to address."

"Of course," I replied, taking the visitor's chair without waiting for an invitation—a subtle power move. "How can I help?"

Winton took the lead, opening his folder. "Last night during the gala, someone accessed Lucas's private apartment and tampered with his personal files. The timing coincides precisely with your... incident with the wine and Elliot's subsequent medical episode."

I raised my eyebrows. "Are you suggesting I broke into Lucas's apartment? That's absurd."

"Is it?" Winton placed a grainy security image on the desk—a figure in white entering the private elevator. The face wasn't visible, but the dress was clearly similar to mine. "This was taken at 9:47 PM, exactly four minutes after you threw wine on Albert."

I leaned forward to examine the image, then laughed softly. "Mr. Pierce, surely a man of your intelligence can see that dozens of women were wearing white last night. This could be anyone."

"The timing—"

"Is circumstantial at best," I interrupted. "I was with Elliot after his episode. The doctor who examined him can confirm that."

Albert looked to Lucas. "Did the doctor stay with Elliot the entire time?"

Lucas frowned. "No. He checked him briefly, then returned to the party."

"And where were you during this time, Lucas?" I asked pointedly.

His eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing at all," I replied innocently. "Just establishing everyone's whereabouts."

Winton slammed his hand on the desk. "Stop deflecting. We know you're not who you claim to be. The question is who sent you."

I met his gaze steadily. "No one 'sent me,' Mr. Pierce. I applied for a teaching position, was hired, and have been doing my job exceptionally well. Elliot has made more progress in weeks with me than years with other tutors."

"That's true," Albert acknowledged, earning a glare from Winton.

"Albert," Winton said tightly, "may I speak with you privately?"

Before Albert could respond, the office door burst open and Elliot rushed in, his face flushed with apparent distress. He thrust his notebook toward his father with trembling hands:

*Emergency. Senator Holloway calling about the Osaka deal leak. On hold in your bedroom.*

Albert paled visibly. "What? That's impossible. The terms are sealed."

Elliot wrote again: *Says he saw documentation. Threatening to withdraw support.*

"Damn it," Albert muttered, already moving toward the door. "Winton, come with me. We need damage control."

"Albert, we're in the middle of—"

"Now, Winton," Albert commanded. "This takes priority."

As they hurried out, Elliot shot me a significant look. I understood immediately—there was no call from Senator Holloway. Elliot had created the perfect distraction, separating the two men just as I'd requested.

That left me alone with Lucas, exactly as I'd planned.

He rose slowly from his chair, approaching me with deliberate steps. "Clever move, getting them out of the room. Did you and my brother rehearse that little performance?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied calmly. "If you'll excuse me—"

"I don't think so." He moved to block the door. "You and I are going to have a real conversation now. No more games."

I sighed, shifting strategies. It was time to give Lucas a taste of what was coming. "Fine. You want truth? Here's some: I know what you did three years ago to that girl from the East Side."

The color drained from his face. "What?"

"Cynthia Zhang," I said, watching his reaction carefully. "You held her down in your bathroom and poured acid on her face because she threatened to expose you for trying to pay her for sex."

His shock quickly transformed into calculated calm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? Perhaps this will refresh your memory." I pulled out my phone, queued to a still frame from the video—not showing my face, but clearly showing him holding a struggling girl. "Recognize this?"

Lucas lunged for the phone, but I was faster, pulling it back. "Careful. Copies exist in multiple locations. If anything happens to me, they go public immediately."

He stepped back, reassessing me with new eyes. "What do you want? Money?"

I laughed coldly. "If I wanted money, I would have taken Winton's check three years ago."

The implication hung in the air between us. Lucas stared at me, really looking at me for the first time—past the new face, the different hair, the careful disguise. I saw the moment recognition dawned, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"No," he whispered. "It's not possible."

"Why?" I asked quietly. "Because you thought you'd destroyed me? Because damaged girls from the slums don't come back to haunt men like you?"

He backed away, shaking his head. "You're insane. You're—"

"The girl you tried to erase," I finished for him. "The one whose face you melted for fun. The one whose life you thought was worthless."

His shock gave way to something darker. "It doesn't matter who you are or what you think you know. No one will believe you. It will be your word against the entire Albert family."

"Not just my word," I corrected. "Your video. Your father's involvement. Winton's cover-up. I have it all, Lucas."

Before he could respond, the door opened as Albert and Winton returned, both looking irritated.

"There was no call from Senator Holloway," Winton announced, eyes darting suspiciously between Lucas and me. "His office says he's been in meetings all morning."

Elliot appeared behind them, face expressionless but eyes communicating silent warning. I needed to retreat, regroup.

"If this interrogation is over," I said smoothly, standing to leave, "I have lessons to prepare."

"This isn't over," Winton replied coldly. "Far from it."

As I moved toward the door, Lucas suddenly drew a gun from his desk drawer, pointing it directly at me. "No one's going anywhere."

Albert stared at his son in shock. "Lucas, what the hell are you doing?"

"She knows," Lucas said, voice tight with panic. "About Cynthia Zhang. She has the video."

Winton's face hardened. "That's impossible. The girl was paid off. The matter was resolved."

"Apparently not," Lucas replied, gun still trained on me. "She's been planning this. Playing us."

I remained perfectly still, calculating my options. I hadn't anticipated Lucas being armed or exposing me so quickly. The situation was deteriorating rapidly.

"Lucas, put the gun down," Albert ordered. "Whatever she knows or thinks she knows, this isn't the way to handle it."

"Listen to your father, Lucas," I said calmly. "Shooting me won't solve your problem. It will only create more evidence."

Winton studied me with new intensity. "Who are you really?"

Before I could answer, Elliot moved with unexpected speed, positioning himself between me and Lucas's gun. His message was clear: to shoot me, Lucas would have to shoot his brother first.

"Elliot, move!" Lucas demanded.

Instead, Elliot slowly shook his head, standing firm.

The standoff stretched for what felt like eternity—Lucas with his wavering gun, Elliot as my human shield, Albert and Winton watching with growing horror as their carefully constructed world threatened to implode.

Finally, Albert broke the silence. "Lucas, give me the gun. Now."

For a moment, I thought Lucas might refuse, might actually shoot through his brother to get to me. But something in Elliot's unwavering stare seemed to reach him. With a curse, he lowered the weapon, tossing it onto the desk.

"You're making a mistake," he told his father bitterly. "She'll destroy everything."

Albert ignored him, turning to me with cold calculation. "Ms. Fontaine—or whoever you are—I think it's time you explained yourself."

I met his gaze steadily. "Not today, Albert. Today, I'm leaving. If you or your lawyer or your son attempts to stop me, the video of Lucas assaulting Cynthia Zhang—and your subsequent cover-up—will be sent to every news outlet in the country."

Winton stepped forward. "You're bluffing."

"May 12, 2017," I recited calmly. "After pouring acid on her face, you entered the bathroom and said, and I quote, 'This wasn't the plan.' Albert joined shortly after and said, 'Not again.' Would you like me to continue?"

The color drained from Winton's face. Albert looked physically ill.

"Elliot," I said quietly, "please come with me."

To everyone's shock, including mine, Elliot nodded and moved to my side. This wasn't part of our plan—he was improvising, choosing sides publicly in a way that couldn't be walked back.

"Elliot, stay here," Albert commanded.

For the first time in seven years, Elliot spoke aloud in his family's presence. His voice was hoarse from disuse but unmistakably clear:

"No."

The single word seemed to echo in the stunned silence. I took Elliot's arm gently, guiding him toward the door. No one moved to stop us.

At the threshold, I turned back to face the three men whose world I had come to destroy. "This isn't over. It's barely begun."

As Elliot and I walked down the corridor toward my quarters, I heard the argument erupting behind us—accusations, denials, the sound of something shattering against a wall.

"Are you okay?" I whispered to Elliot.

He nodded, then wrote quickly in his notebook: *They'll come after us now. No more hiding.*

He was right. By standing with me, Elliot had accelerated my timeline dramatically. We needed to move quickly.

"Pack whatever you need," I told him. "We leave in ten minutes."

As we hurried through the penthouse, I felt a strange mixture of triumph and dread. I had landed the first real blow in my revenge—exposed my true purpose, shaken their foundation. But I had also lost the element of surprise, my most valuable asset.

The game had changed. And it had just become infinitely more dangerous.