Chapter 9 - The Golden Boy Falls
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“Blair, listen to me,” Preston choked out, his arrogance rapidly dissolving into genuine panic. “Don’t do something stupid. You don't understand how the business works.”
“Too late,” I replied cheerfully. “You already did the stupid thing for both of us.”
On the speakerphone, David Chen cleared his throat. “Miss Whitmore, the audit team also flagged multiple irregular transfers. Millions of dollars moved into a private account connected to Martha Whitlock, and another shell entity associated with Julian Kingsley’s family office.”
Arthur’s grip on Preston’s arm tightened another fraction of an inch. Preston winced.
I looked down at my adopted brother in disgust. “Julian too. You and my fiancé were stealing from me together. How poetic.”
Right on cue, the heavy dining room doors swung open again. Julian Kingsley walked in, looking like he had been summoned by his own overwhelming guilt.
Julian was everything high society magazines loved to put on their covers. Tall, athletic, blond, with piercing blue eyes. He was the heir to a Chicago shipping fortune, educated at Princeton, and polished enough to lie to your face while looking like a saint.
He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Preston pinned to the table by the butler. Julian quickly rearranged his face into an expression of deep, patronizing concern.
“Blair, darling,” Julian said softly, using his most soothing tone. “Phoebe called me from some awful motel room in tears. Carter and Jackson are saying you’ve completely lost control. Preston warned me you were making dangerous, erratic decisions. I really think your grief might be affecting your mental state again. You need help.”
I threw my head back and laughed. It was a sharp, biting sound that echoed off the high ceilings.
Julian blinked, entirely thrown off guard. In the original novel, those words were his weapon of choice. Gaslighting her. Framing her as a fragile, hysterical woman so he could step in and take control of her assets “for her own good.” It was a clean, bloodless way to build a cage.
“Do not try to diagnose me with a mental illness just because your mistress is suddenly homeless, Julian,” I said.
Dead silence fell over the room. Preston’s eyes snapped toward Julian.
Julian’s jaw tightened, his gentle facade slipping. “That is a disgusting and cruel accusation, Blair.”
“Arthur,” I said.
The butler effortlessly hauled Preston to his feet, shoving him back, and then placed a thick, heavy manila folder on the dining table. I slid it across the mahogany toward Julian.
May you like
“Photographs,” I listed calmly. “Hotel registry records. Penthouse lease agreements paid from corporate accounts. Designer jewelry receipts. And pages of text messages between you and Phoebe, explicitly discussing how soon after our wedding you could have me declared legally insane.”
Julian stared at the folder as if it were a bomb. He didn't touch it.
