Chapter 8 - The Mahogany Desk
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Preston paced the length of the table, his polished oxfords clicking aggressively against the hardwood floor.
“You think just because Dad left you the majority voting shares, you’re untouchable?” he mocked, pointing a finger at my face. “I run Whitmore Capital. I handle the board of directors. I keep the shareholders calm while you float around this mansion, pretending that clinical depression is a personality trait!”
There it was. The deep, rotting resentment beneath the facade of brotherhood. He had never loved Blair. He had only ever loved what her last name gave him access to.
“You are going to call the district attorney and drop the charges against Martha,” Preston ordered, his voice dropping to a threatening register. “You are going to bring Phoebe back here and give her a room. And you are going to get on your knees and apologize to Carter and Jackson for embarrassing them.”
“No,” I said simply, taking a sip of my coffee.
His temper snapped. His hand moved before his rational brain could catch up, rearing back to strike me across the face.
He never made contact.
Arthur moved with the lethal precision of a man who had spent fifteen years waiting for this exact excuse. The elderly butler caught Preston’s wrist mid-air, twisted it violently behind his back, and slammed the golden boy of the Whitmore family face-first onto the polished mahogany table. The impact rattled the coffee cups.
Preston cried out in shock and pain, his cheek pressed flat against the wood. “Get the hell off me, you old bastard!”
“You attempted to physically assault the head of the Whitmore family,” Arthur said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion, though his grip tightened painfully. “I strongly advise you to reconsider your tone, Mr. Preston.”
I stood up, smoothing out the skirt of my dress, and walked slowly around the table until I was looking down at him.
“You want to talk about the company?” I asked softly. “Let’s talk about the company.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed the Chief Financial Officer, putting it on speaker.
“Miss Whitmore,” David Chen answered on the first ring.
“David. Freeze all corporate accounts linked to Preston Whitmore immediately. Cancel his black cards. Revoke his building access codes. Suspend him from all executive functions pending a full forensic audit.”
Preston went completely still beneath Arthur’s grip.
“Understood,” David replied without hesitation. “Should we also freeze the discretionary offshore accounts opened through the Cayman Islands subsidiary?”
May you like
Preston’s face drained of all color.
I smiled, a predator showing its teeth. “Especially those.”
