Sitting in the very last row, partially hidden by the shadow of the door, was Arthur Bradford.

The old man sat with his hands resting on his silver-topped cane, his face carved of granite.

He did not look at his daughter-in-law; he looked straight at me.

Arthur knew that the public exposure of Vivian’s fraud would trigger the bank covenants on their loans.

The Bradford empire was facing immediate, catastrophic bankruptcy.

Judge Vance cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the bench.

“Based on the evidence presented regarding harassment and the ongoing financial instability of the petitioners,” Judge Vance said.

“I am denying the emergency petition for temporary custody.”

A wave of relief washed over me, so strong my knees felt weak under the table.

“Furthermore,” the judge continued, “I am issuing a temporary restraining order.”

“Vivian Bradford and her agents are to remain five hundred feet away from the children and their mother until a full hearing is conducted.”

The gavel struck the wooden block with a sharp, final crack.

Marcus turned to me and smiled, squeezing my shoulder. “We got it, Clara.”