Chapter 6 - The Visitor at the Gate
Two weeks passed with the speed of a rushing river.
Foxbridge Manor was no longer a tomb. The sterile halls hummed with the soft, chaotic soundtrack of five growing infants—coos, gurgles, midnight bottle warmers clicking, and the gentle patter of Naomi’s footsteps as she coordinated a newly hired, thoroughly vetted domestic staff.
Hudson hadn't returned to his Manhattan office once. He managed Caldwell Systems entirely from the mahogany desk in his master suite, holding video conferences with his executive board while wearing a baby carrier strapped to his chest containing either Sophie or Nora. The Wall Street elite whispered in stunned disbelief about the sudden, radical behavioral shift of the cold-blooded tech titan.
Down in the east wing, Naomi was settling into her new role with natural grace. She had spent her first paycheck upgrading her mother’s medical care and buying a stack of books on estate management. She commanded the newly hired housekeepers and chefs with quiet confidence, earning their immediate respect.
Yet, despite the newfound harmony, a storm was brewing outside the gates of Foxbridge Manor.
It started on a crisp Tuesday morning when a sleek, silver Mercedes-Benz Maybach pulled up to the security checkpoint at the end of the long driveway.
Marcus Vale walked briskly into Hudson’s second-floor study, where Hudson was reviewing a quarterly financial report while gently rocking Clara to sleep in her bassinet.
“Boss,” Marcus said, his face set in a tight, displeased frown. “We have an unannounced visitor at the main gate.”
Hudson didn't look up from his tablet. “Turn them away. I’m not taking meetings this week.”
“It’s not a business associate, Hudson,” Marcus said heavily. “It’s Victoria Vance. And she brought local child services with her.”
Hudson’s head snapped up. The pen in his hand snapped in half between his fingers.
Victoria Vance—not related to Dr. Sarah Vance, but rather the formidable, aristocratic mother of the late Delilah Vale—had been a vocal critic of Hudson ever since her daughter’s tragic death. Victoria believed Hudson was directly responsible for Delilah’s fatal exhaustion through his relentless work ethic, and she had spent the last three months attempting to initiate legal guardianship proceedings to strip Hudson of custody and move the quintuplets to her sprawling estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.
“She has no legal standing,” Hudson growled, his voice dropping into a lethal, glacial register. “The court dismissed her emergency injunction last month.”
“She didn't come with a court order this time, boss,” Marcus said grimly. “She came with a social services investigator and a local magistrate, claiming an anonymous tip was filed alleging that the children are being neglected and raised by an unqualified, underage domestic worker.”
Hudson froze. An anonymous tip.
He immediately thought of Mrs. Gable—the suspended head housekeeper who had been fired and escorted off the property two weeks ago after her complicity in the agency nurses' abandonment came to light. Or perhaps one of the disgraced agency executives facing multi-million-dollar lawsuits.
“Get security on the line,” Hudson ordered, standing up swiftly and handing a sleeping Clara to Marcus. “Have them escorted off the property immediately. No one touches my daughters.”
“Too late, Mr. Vale,” a sharp, imperious voice echoed from the doorway of the study.
May you like
Hudson turned around. Standing in the doorway was Victoria Vance, impeccably dressed in a tailored Chanel camel-coat, diamond earrings flashing in the morning light. Flanking her was a nervous-looking county social worker holding a metal clipboard, and right behind them stood Mrs. Gable, smirking with malicious satisfaction.
The battle for Foxbridge Manor had officially begun.
