Chapter 3 - The PR Campaign
The freezing of my bank accounts was only the opening salvo. Alister and his mother understood that in the court of public opinion, a high-society family’s reputation was everything. If they could destroy my credibility before the court hearing, they could paint me as an unstable, money-hungry woman making wild claims to extort the Beaumont legacy.
Two days after I filed for divorce, I woke up to my phone buzzing relentlessly. Text messages, missed calls, and notifications were flooding my screen.
A prominent Boston gossip blog—frequently fed tips by Eleanor’s socialite circle—had published a lead article with a striking headline:
"SOCIETY SCANDAL: WIFE OF APEX HOLDINGS CEO ABSCONDS WITH DAUGHTER AMID MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS."
The article claimed that I had suffered a severe nervous breakdown, abandoned my three young sons at home, and disappeared into the night with little Cora. It hinted at "substance abuse issues," claimed I had been refusing medical treatment, and painted Alister as a devoted, heartbroken father doing his best to shield his traumatized children from an unstable mother.
Below the article was a curated photo of the family from last year's charity gala: Alister looking regal, Eleanor draped in pearls, the three boys in matching tuxedos, and me standing off to the side looking tired. Cora had been cropped out of the photo entirely.
"Mamma?" Cora asked, standing in the bathroom doorway in her oversized hotel t-shirt. "Why are you looking at your phone like that?"
I forced a smile, flipping the phone screen-down on the nightstand. "Just checking the weather, sweetie. Today, we're going to go look at a little apartment."
I called Marcus immediately. "Have you seen the press?"
"I saw it," Marcus replied, his voice calm and measured. "It's classic public relations warfare. They're trying to create a narrative that you are unfit so they can request an emergency psychological evaluation during the custody hearing. It’s designed to stall the proceedings and drain your legal funds."
"I only have a hundred dollars left in cash, Marcus," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. "I can't pay a retainer for a long legal war."
"Don't worry about my fee right now, Genevieve," Marcus said sharply. "I don't like being played by corporate bullies. But we need to hit back—not with rumors, but with facts. Do you still have your digital portfolio from before you married Alister?"
Before I had married Alister, I had been an up-and-coming freelance illustrator and children's book designer. I had given up my career when Alister insisted that a "Beaumont wife" shouldn't be working for a paycheck. But I had never destroyed my work.
"Yes," I said. "It's all on my personal cloud drive."
"Good. Because an independent publishing house in New York reached out to my office an hour ago. They saw the news, remembered your early work, and want to know if you're available for a major book illustration contract. The advance payment alone will cover your immediate living expenses."
A wave of profound relief washed over me. "Who gave them your contact info?"
"An old colleague of yours who saw the gossip article and knew it was total garbage," Marcus chuckled. "Alister thinks he controls the narrative because he buys ad space in local magazines. He forgets that real people respect actual talent."
Armed with the promise of the advance, I rented a cozy, two-bedroom apartment in Somerville. It was small, with hardwood floors that squeaked and a small balcony overlooking a maple tree, but the moment I unlocked the door and showed Cora her new room, her face lit up.
"Is this our house?" she asked, walking around the perimeter of the bedroom.
"It sure is," I said, dropping our bags on the floor. "We're going to paint this wall pink, and we're going to buy you a real bed tomorrow."
She jumped into my arms, wrapping her little legs around my waist. "I love it, Mommy."
May you like
For the first time in years, I felt like I was breathing real air. But my peace was short-lived. That evening, as I was cooking pasta on the small kitchen stove, there was a sharp, aggressive knock at the apartment door.
I looked through the peephole. Standing in the dimly lit hallway was Eleanor Beaumont, flanked by two burly men in dark business suits.
