Chapter 7: The Uninvited Visitor
The sharp, insistent buzzing of the loft’s intercom interrupted their quiet morning. Amy froze, half-rising from the sofa with Leo clutched protectively against her shoulder. Julian stood up immediately, walking over to the wall-mounted video intercom unit and pressing the talk button. The grainy black-and-white screen flickered to life, revealing Eleanor standing in the brisk morning air outside the heavy iron security gate of the building, her dark hair immaculate beneath a designer silk scarf, flanked by a tall, unsmiling man in a charcoal suit.
“Julian, open this gate this instant,” Eleanor’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and imperious, completely ignoring the fact that she was uninvited and trespassing in an unfashionable part of town. “We need to discuss your absurd theatrics from last night. The entire board is calling my office asking why my son threw a public tantrum and abandoned our guests.”
Julian pressed the button down, his voice cold and devoid of any warmth. “You are not welcome here, Mother. Go back to your estate.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Julian,” Eleanor snapped back, her tone sharpening. “I have Mr. Vance from the family legal team with me. We are going to sit down like civilized adults and sort out this temporary madness before you do permanent damage to your career and your inheritance. Open the gate, or I will have management unlock it.”
Julian looked back at Amy, who gave him a firm, encouraging nod. He released the talk button, pressed the automatic buzzer to open the courtyard gate, and turned back to face the entrance. “Let her up,” Julian said quietly. “It’s time we finish this conversation once and for all, on our own terms.”
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Within three minutes, the private elevator chimed softly, and the sliding doors opened to reveal Eleanor stepping into the loft. She surveyed the industrial space with undisguised contempt, her nose wrinkling at the exposed brick and the lack of crown molding. Mr. Vance stepped out behind her, holding a thick leather briefcase under his arm like a shield. Eleanor looked at Julian, then spotted Amy sitting on the sofa with the baby.
“Playing bohemian in a converted warehouse,” Eleanor said smoothly, walking toward the center of the room as if she owned it. “How delightfully cliché, Julian. But playing house with a nursemaid’s daughter doesn't change your obligations to our family name.”
