Chapter 7 - The Desperate Play
The backlash against Beatrice’s video was swift and devastating once the truth came out.
With the help of Apex’s PR team and Marcus’s legal filing, we released a selected portion of the security footage—specifically the moment my father screamed in my daughter’s face—along with a public statement detailing the financial support I had provided them over the last year.
The public narrative flipped overnight.
The people who had been calling me a monster turned their fury on Beatrice and Arthur. The video was removed, their social media accounts were deactivated, and the cheap motel they were staying at became a target for local reporters looking for a story on "parental parasites."
On Friday evening, as I was preparing dinner for Lily, my phone rang. It was an unknown number, but I answered it, expecting a reporter.
"Clara," a voice whispered. It was Beatrice, but she sounded completely broken, her usual theatrical drama replaced by a hollow, desperate rattle. "You have to stop this. The police are at our door. Arthur... Arthur had a panic attack. They’re saying we could go to jail for filing a false police report and defamation."
"You did file a false report, Beatrice," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "And you did defame me. You tried to ruin my career and my life. What did you think would happen?"
"We have no money, Clara!" she sobbed, the sound of her crying echoing through the speaker. "The motel is charging us seventy dollars a night, and we only have two hundred dollars left in our account. They’re going to kick us out tomorrow. We’ll be on the street. Please... just give us a small loan. Ten thousand dollars. Just enough to get an apartment. We’ll sign whatever you want. We’ll never speak to you again."
"No," I said simply.
"Clara, please! I am your mother!"
"A mother protects her child, Beatrice. She doesn't smirk while a grown man screams in her face. You made your choice fourteen months ago when you decided to treat my home like your personal kingdom, and you made it again on Wednesday when you tried to destroy my livelihood."
"We will die out here!" she shrieked.
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"Then I suggest you find a shelter," I said. "Because the bank of Clara is closed permanently."
I hung up, feeling a profound sense of closure. For years, I had believed that I had to tolerate their abuse because they were my "family." But family is a verb, not a noun. It is defined by how you treat people, not by the blood in your veins. And they had proven, once and for all, that they were not my family.
