“It is official,” the lawyer said, taking the papers back. “I will file these with the clerk immediately.”

“Thank you,” Alexander said.

We walked out of the courthouse thirty minutes later, the reporters still shouting from behind the metal barricades.

But this time, the questions didn’t seem to matter as much.

The drive back to the Upper East Side was quiet, the city passing by in its usual gray rush.

When we arrived at the townhouse, Margaret’s tablet buzzed with a notification.

She looked at it, then turned her head to look at Alexander in the back seat.

“The police have arrived at Fifth Avenue,” Margaret said. “They are escorting her out now.”

“Is there press there?” Alexander asked.

“Yes,” Margaret said. “They were waiting.”

Alexander looked out the window, his expression unreadable.

“She wanted the Sterling name to mean everything,” Alexander said. “Now it will mean this.”

We got out of the car and walked up the steps to our home.

Inside, the boys were sitting on the living room rug, building a tall tower out of green and blue plastic blocks.