Chelsea tried to leave.

She grabbed her purse, knocked over a glass of water, and said she wouldn’t stay there and be “emotionally attacked.” But when she reached the door, two things stopped her.

First, the restaurant manager stepped in holding the laptop case she had tried to take from the waiter’s station.

Second, my attorney, Sandra Miller, walked into the room.

Chelsea froze.

Sandra had been waiting in the lobby—not for drama, but because company funds were involved. If Chelsea had admitted everything quietly, we would have handled it privately. Instead, she had tried to force my wife into a public apology for a lie she created.

Sandra placed a document on the table.

“Mrs. Collins,” she said to Chelsea, “this is a formal preservation notice. You are not to delete messages, financial records, business files, or communications with Mr. Blake.”

Chelsea let out a shaky laugh. “You can’t scare me.”

Sandra’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t need to.”

Ryan picked up the hotel receipt with trembling hands. “How long?”

Chelsea’s anger faded into panic. “Ryan, please. We can talk at home.”

“How long?” he repeated.

She looked down. “A few months.”

Diane closed her eyes.

I watched my son absorb the kind of pain no parent can fix, no matter how much we wish we could. For years, I had seen Chelsea slowly distance him from us—turning every concern into an attack, every boundary into disrespect. But he had to see it for himself. Truth forced too early is often rejected.

READ MORE ON THE NEXT PAGE..