Chapter 8 - The Counsel of Marcus
By Monday afternoon, the reality of my new situation demanded legal and strategic navigation. I could not simply harbor an unidentified child in a luxury high-rise indefinitely without risking catastrophic fallout from social services or, worse, my former social circle weaponizing the situation against me. I arranged a discreet breakfast meeting at a quiet, wood-paneled downtown diner far from the fashionable districts where Julian and his associates kept offices. Marcus Vance, my family’s estate attorney for over a decade, sat across from me in a corner booth, turning a heavy ceramic coffee mug between his weathered hands.
"You realize the gravity of what you're doing, Clara," Marcus said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried decades of courtroom wisdom. "If you take custody off-the-books, or if you fail to report finding her immediately to the proper authorities, you open yourself up to severe legal liabilities. The board at the foundation would have a field day with this."
"The authorities' databases have zero record of her, Marcus," I replied, keeping my voice steady as I stirred cream into my coffee. "I checked every missing child report from here to the coast. If I hand her over to the county intake system right now, she’ll disappear into a bureaucratic maze from which she might never emerge. I want to do this right. I want to file for temporary guardianship while we trace where she came from."
Marcus sighed, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses and looking out the diner window at the steady stream of morning commuters. "Doing it right means opening an official investigation. It means social workers, medical evaluations, and police questioning. Are you prepared to have your life torn apart by investigators who won't understand why a high-society donor suddenly scooped up a stray child from a charity gala?"
"My life was already a facade," I said quietly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I'm prepared to burn it down if it means keeping her safe."
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Marcus studied me for a long moment, noting the quiet resolve in my posture and the absence of my usual polished jewelry and designer accessories. He gave a slow, measured nod, reaching into his leather briefcase to pull out a stack of preliminary paperwork.
"All right," he muttered, sliding the documents across the formica table. "We file for emergency protective custody under my private registry. It buys us a window of thirty days before the court forces a public accounting. But Clara—someone brought that child to the estate. People don't just wander into a private evening garden gala draped in security lighting by accident. We need to find out who dropped her there."
