Chapter 7 - The Brother's Wrath
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Preston Whitmore arrived before breakfast the very next morning, slamming through the mansion’s front doors with the aggressive entitlement of a man who equated volume with authority.
“Blair!” his voice boomed through the corridors.
I was seated comfortably at the head of the long mahogany dining table in the sunroom. The storm had broken, and bright California sunlight spilled across the Pacific Ocean, illuminating the financial reports spread out before me. Arthur stood like a sentinel two paces behind my chair. My coffee was steaming in a bone china cup.
I didn’t even bother looking up from my reading. “Use your inside voice, Preston,” I said smoothly. “This is a private estate, not a frat house.”
He stormed into the dining room, looking the part of the perfect CEO in a bespoke navy Brioni suit, reeking of expensive cologne and barely suppressed rage. Preston was handsome in that manufactured, sterile way that rich men often are—perfectly styled hair, unnervingly white teeth, an athletic build, but eyes that were entirely dead behind the charm.
My father had rescued him from poverty at age twelve, adopting him. The old Blair had loved him like real blood. But in the novel, Preston was the architect of her destruction. He wanted the company, the name, and the power. Blair was just an obstacle.
His mask was already cracking. He slammed his palms onto the mahogany table, making the silverware jump.
“What the hell did you do to Martha?” he demanded, spit flying from his lips. “And where is Phoebe? Her phone goes straight to voicemail!”
I slowly turned a page of my report. “Martha is currently sitting in a county jail cell, awaiting arraignment. Phoebe has been evicted. She is no longer my problem.”
“You had Martha arrested? Are you insane?” he shouted. “She took care of you after Mom and Dad died!”
I finally looked up, meeting his furious gaze with dead, icy eyes. “My parents, Preston. Not yours.”
The words struck him like a physical blow. For a split second, a flash of raw, venomous hatred twisted his handsome features. Then, he let out a harsh, mocking laugh.
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“There it is,” he sneered. “The real Blair. You’ve always been a spoiled, arrogant little bloodline princess, haven't you?”
I carefully folded the financial report and placed it on the table. “I would be very careful about what you say next, Preston.”
