He is making you out to be crazy, Nana—you need to hide under the bed right now, six-year-old Maya whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she tugged my sleeve inside the private recovery suite.
I was still reeling from the revelation of Julian’s bigamy, the truth burning bright and hot, ready to set fire to his carefully constructed world. Harrison was assembling the documents, preparing for what he called “the final, decisive strike.”
But Julian, it seemed, had a final counter-measure.
I woke to the insistent buzzing of my phone. It was Maya’s school.
“Mrs. DuBose, we tried to process the tuition payment today,” the administrator’s voice was tight with apology, “but the payment was declined. All accounts associated with the DuBose Foundation are showing as frozen.”
My stomach dropped. Julian had moved faster. He hadn’t waited for my legal team to file the bigamy affidavit. He’d used his earlier emergency motion, the one claiming Cecelia’s dementia, to consolidate control.
I tried to log into my personal banking app. Access denied. My online portals for bills, investments, even my utilities – all locked. He had secured a broad-reaching temporary injunction, freezing everything. He’d cut off my access to my own lifeblood, my own money, under the guise of “protecting” my supposedly failing mind.
I called Harrison in a controlled rage. “He’s done it. He’s frozen everything. Even Maya’s tuition!”
“He’s operating on an emergency ex parte order,” Harrison explained, his voice grim. “It’s a temporary measure, granted without our presence, based on his fabricated claims. It won’t stand long once we get before a judge with the bigamy affidavit, but in the meantime…”
In the meantime, I was financially paralyzed.
Later that afternoon, as I pulled up to the ornate wrought-iron gates of my Tuxedo Road estate, a new, unsettling sight met my eyes. Two hulking men in dark uniforms stood guard, flanking the entrance. Their badges read “Vanguard Security.” Julian’s firm.
I stopped my car. The gates, usually opening seamlessly with my transponder, remained stubbornly shut.
I rolled down my window. “Excuse me,” I called out, my voice quivering slightly despite my efforts. “I live here.”
One of the guards, a man with a shaved head and an impassive face, stepped forward. “Ma’am, we have orders. Under a provisional court order, access to the DuBose Estate is restricted. Mr. Julian DuBose has retained Vanguard to protect the property.”
“Protect it from whom?” I demanded, a flash of indignation cutting through my fear. “From me? I am Eleanor DuBose! This is my home!”
“Our orders are clear, ma’am,” he repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Only approved personnel. We have a list.” He gestured vaguely to a clipboard. “Your name is not on it.”
My hands clenched the steering wheel. He had locked me out. Physically, financially, legally. My own home, the ancestral seat of my family, was now a fortress against me, guarded by Julian’s hired muscle.
There was no arguing with them. I could not breach my own gates. Humiliation burned through me.
I backed away slowly, my mind racing. I couldn’t go back to the clinic. I couldn’t stay at a hotel. There was only one place.
I drove to Aunt Cecelia’s house in Druid Hills, the place that had first offered me a glimpse of Julian’s fraud, and now, my only refuge. My team would have to plan the final exposure from there. The stakes had just escalated far beyond money; this was a war for my very existence.
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