Chapter 3 - The Media Wildfire
By eight o'clock the following morning, the Newport blizzard had cleared, leaving behind a world of pristine, blinding white under a pale blue sky. But online, a different kind of storm was raging, and it was spreading with terrifying speed.
The "Mercer Gala Scandal" had gone viral.
Because the gala had been attended by several high-profile media executives and local journalists, details of the dramatic confrontation had leaked within hours. A short, grainy video captured by a guest’s smartphone had been uploaded to a popular social media platform. It showed the exact moment Julian carried a pregnant Mara out of the ballroom, his voice clearly declaring her as his wife, while Vivienne stood frozen under the glittering chandeliers, holding a pair of silver scissors and a severed braid of dark hair.
The contrast was devastating: a billionaire matriarch holding a literal trophy of domestic cruelty, while her son rescued his pregnant, injured wife.
Inside the Narragansett cottage, the silence of the morning was shattered by the continuous buzzing of Julian's phone. He sat at the wooden kitchen island, a cup of black coffee cooling beside him as he spoke to Richard Vance, his lead personal attorney.
"I don't care about the board of trustees, Richard," Julian said, his voice flat and unyielding. "If they want to call an emergency meeting to discuss my 'conduct,' they can do so. But remind them that I hold forty-nine percent of the voting shares in the foundation. If they try to force me out, I will liquidate my shares and crash the entire endowment before the market opens on Monday."
He listened to the attorney's frantic response for a moment before cutting him off.
"And Richard? File the police report. I want Vivienne Mercer charged with third-degree assault and harassment. Yes, my mother. Do it now."
He hung up the phone and rubbed his temples, a deep crease of worry etched between his brows. He hadn't slept a wink, spending the night monitoring Mara’s breathing as she slept fitfully on the sofa, her hand never leaving her stomach.
A soft rustle of blankets drew his attention. Mara was sitting up, her face pale but her eyes clear. She had washed her face and applied a small bandage to the scratch on her hairline. Her short, uneven hair fell around her cheeks, giving her a delicate, fragile look that made Julian’s heart ache.
"You should be resting," Julian said softly, walking over to sit beside her on the edge of the sofa. He took her hands, finding them icy cold.
"I can't sleep, Julian. The phones are vibrating through the floorboards," Mara said, offering a small, tired smile. She looked at his laptop screen, which was filled with headline after headline. "It's everywhere, isn't it?"
"It’s the top trending topic nationwide," Julian admitted, turning the laptop so she could see. "The public is outraged. Vivienne’s charity sponsors are already pulling their names from the upcoming spring gala. The Newport Cultural Preservation Society is holding an emergency meeting. They can't ignore the optics of this."
Mara scrolled through the comments on a major news outlet's Facebook post.
“This is horrific. She cut her pregnant maid’s hair? This belongs in the 1800s, not 2026. Props to the husband for standing up for his wife.” “Old money cruelty at its finest. I hope she sues them for every penny.” “Look at the poor girl's face. She looks terrified. This is pure abuse.”
"They think I'm a victim, Julian," Mara said, her voice quiet. "They see me as a helpless victim of your mother’s cruelty."
"You are a victim of her assault, Mara," Julian said gently.
"Yes, but I am not helpless," Mara replied, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. She sat up straighter, her posture losing its frailty. "Vivienne wants to paint this as a story of a predatory servant who seduced her wealthy son. She’s already drafting a statement—I know her, Julian. She will release a narrative claiming I blackmailed you, or that the pregnancy is a calculated scheme to get into the Mercer trust."
As if on cue, Julian’s phone buzzed with an incoming email from the Mercer corporate communications team. It was a draft of a press release authorized by Vivienne’s personal legal team.
“The Mercer family regrets the unfortunate incident at the winter gala. While we celebrate the upcoming birth of Julian Mercer’s child, we must clarify that the marriage was entered into without the knowledge or consent of the family trust executors. We are currently investigating allegations of professional misconduct and breach of confidentiality regarding the family archives by the staff member involved...”
"She's setting the stage to invalidate our marriage and fire me for 'theft' of the archives," Mara whispered, her knuckles turning white as she read the draft. "If she paints me as a thief, any evidence I bring forward about the Carroway acquisition will be dismissed as a bitter, retaliatory lie."
Julian stood up, pacing the length of the living room, his mind working furiously. "She’s trying to preempt the Carroway release. She knows that if the public learns the truth about how Arthur Mercer stole the shipping lanes, the Mercer name is finished. We need to strike first, Mara. We can't just defend ourselves. We have to release the documents."
"We can't just dump them online, Julian," Mara warned. "The Carroway estate still has living descendants. If we release the documents without their involvement, it looks like we’re using their family tragedy as a shield for our own scandal. We need to find them. We need to find Clara Vance."
Julian stopped pacing, turning to look at his wife with a look of profound respect. "Clara Vance... the granddaughter of the original Carroway partner. You cataloged her letters last month."
"Yes," Mara said, her eyes shining with hope. "She’s seventy-two, living in a small apartment in South Boston. She has no idea that her grandfather's original shares in the shipping lines were illegally transferred to the Mercer trust through forged signatures. If we bring her the proof, if we help her reclaim what is rightfully hers... we don't just defeat Vivienne. We actually do something right."
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Julian walked back to the sofa, kneeling before his wife and placing his hands on her shoulders. "You are incredible, do you know that? In the middle of all this chaos, when you should be thinking only of yourself, you’re trying to correct a century-old injustice."
"I am thinking of myself, Julian," Mara said, her hand resting over her belly. "I want our daughter to grow up knowing that her mother didn't just survive this family—she changed it."
