Chapter 3: The Cold Light of Morning**
By dawn, the incident had been scrubbed from high-society gossip blogs by the Montgomery PR machine. In a modest ground-floor apartment in downtown Chicago, Claire spread photocopies across a scarred wooden dining table. Her defense was Marcus Vance, a tired, sharp-eyed civil rights attorney working out of a low-rent storefront in Pilsen. Marcus had spent two years helping Claire trace the falsified death certificate from Cook County General Hospital.
"They’ll claim you’re an unstable former employee trying to extort them," Marcus warned, sliding a hot mug of black coffee toward her. "Victoria Montgomery owns half the appellate judges in this district. Julian has custody on paper. In the eyes of the law, you don’t exist." Claire looked at the Polaroid of newborn Leo, stamped with a forged red *DECEASED* seal. "He remembered my voice, Marcus," Claire said quietly, her eyes burning with steady conviction. "I sang the same lullaby through the glass in the nursery before they drugged me. He knows who I am. That’s enough to tear down their kingdom."
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