Chapter 12 - Rattled Foundations
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The news of Eleanor Rhodess being detained at the airport sent shockwaves through Seattle's high-society elite.
The women who had once attended Eleanor’s lavish charity galas and praised her exquisite taste immediately deleted her from their contact lists. The luxury boutiques where she had spent tens of thousands of dollars on credit lines revoked her VIP memberships.
At the federal holding facility, Eleanor sat in a cold, fluorescent-lit consultation room, wearing a beige prison jumpsuit.
Her hands were handcuffed at her wrists, resting on the Formica table. Sitting across from her was Julian, looking exhausted, wearing an ill-fitting suit he had borrowed from a friend.
“You have to get me out of here, Julian!” Eleanor shrieked, her voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Call our family lawyer! Use the house as collateral for bail!”
Julian looked at his mother with hollow, defeated eyes. “There is no house, Mom. The court marshal placed the seizure seal on the estate two hours ago. Mila and I were forced to pack two suitcases each and leave. We’re staying in a budget motel near the airport.”
Eleanor’s mouth opened in absolute horror. “A... a budget motel? The Rhodess family does not stay in budget motels!”
“There is no Rhodess family anymore, Mom!” Julian snapped, his voice breaking with raw rage. “We have no money! The bank accounts are frozen! The firm is bankrupt! And you... you tried to fly to Canada and leave me and Mila to take the fall!”
Eleanor flinched, a rare flash of guilt washing across her face before her defensive walls went back up. “I was going to transfer money from the Vancouver account to hire better lawyers for you!”
“There is no Vancouver account, Mom,” Julian said softly. “The IRS seized that yesterday. Leah’s team found everything.”
Eleanor sank back into her chair, the metal cuffs clinking against the table. Her eyes drifted to the small reinforced window in the door.
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“She planned this,” Eleanor whispered, her voice filled with a terrifying, venomous hatred. “That pathetic little girl... she sat at my dinner table for six years, smiling, cooking, cleaning... while she built a trap to skin us alive.”
“She didn't build a trap, Mom,” Julian said, standing up from his chair. “She just kept the receipts. And tomorrow, she takes the company.”
