Chapter 1 - The Patriarch’s Verdict
|
“Molly,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into the quiet, terrifying register that had broken hostile witnesses for decades.
Molly jumped.
“Yes, Dad?”
“Take your mother into the sitting room. And close the double doors.”
Ruth Whitcomb looked as though she might faint, but she allowed her daughter to guide her away from the table. The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut, leaving twenty-one people in suffocating silence.
Arthur turned his gaze to Sloane.
Sloane’s confident posture faltered. She dropped her hand from Evan’s arm, suddenly realizing that crashing a billionaire’s Christmas Eve dinner was a fatal miscalculation.
“You,” Arthur said, pointing a single, trembling finger at Sloane. “You have exactly two minutes to collect whatever cheap coat you arrived in and exit my property. If you are still in this house when the grandfather clock chimes, I will have my security physically remove you.”
Sloane gasped, her face flushing crimson.
“Mr. Whitcomb, I—”
“One minute and forty-five seconds,” Arthur interrupted, pulling a gold pocket watch from his vest.
Sloane looked at Evan, desperation flashing in her eyes.
“Evan? Do something!”
Evan swallowed hard, looking like a little boy who had just broken a priceless vase.
“Sloane, maybe you should wait in the car.”
“Are you kidding me?” she hissed, her voice losing all its soft, cultured edges. “You told me they’d accept me! You told me she was nothing!”
“One minute and thirty seconds,” Arthur said without looking up.
Sloane let out a sound of pure frustration, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the dining room. The heavy front door slammed a moment later, echoing through the cavernous foyer.
Arthur slowly placed his watch back into his pocket. He turned to his son.
“You brought a mistress into my home. You allowed her to strike your wife. The woman who has held this family together for six years.”
“Dad, Claire and I have been over for a long time—”
“Silence.”
Arthur’s voice cracked like a whip.
“You are a disgrace to the Whitcomb name. Pack your bags, Evan. You are no longer welcome in this house. And as of tomorrow morning, you are suspended from Whitcomb Development.”
May you like
Evan’s face went completely pale.
I stood frozen, the stinging heat on my cheek entirely forgotten, as I watched the empire Evan had built his ego upon crumble in less than five minutes.
