Chapter 3 - The Record Button
Vanessa let out a small, strangled shriek. "Ethan! Tell her! Tell her you love me! It was just a stupid prank! I didn't know who she was!"
Ethan stood beside me, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. Looking at him now, I saw the boy I had raised after his father died—a boy who had inherited my work ethic, but who had spent the last two years blinded by a pretty face and a polished social pedigree.
"You sprayed my mother with a hose, Vanessa," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a register I had never heard him use before. "You called her a tramp. You sat there and laughed while she was on her knees in the dirt."
"Ethan, darling, please!" Patricia interjected, rushing over to grab Ethan’s arm, her voice rising in panic. "We can fix this! Let us take your mother inside, get her into warm clothes, order the finest catering—George has a vintage bottle of Chateau Margaux in the cellar! It was a harmless mistake!"
"A mistake?" I pulled my reusable grocery tote from beneath my arm.
With deliberate slowness, I opened the top flap and pulled out my phone. It was housed in a heavy-duty, military-grade waterproof case, the screen still glowing brightly. The red recording indicator was blinking.
00:14:32.
"I have fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds of continuous high-definition video," I said, holding the screen up so the entire lawn could see it. "I have you, Vanessa, boasting about how beggars have no place at weddings. I have you, Patricia, ordering security to search my belongings as if I were a thief. And I have you, George, standing by with your drink, chuckling while a defenseless senior citizen was blasted with freezing water."
George’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "Mrs. Carter... please. Think of the Dallas deal! The investors from Texas and Chicago are sitting in my drawing room right now! If word of this gets out, the syndicate will collapse!"
"The syndicate is already dead, George," I replied coldly.
At that moment, the French doors of the mansion opened again. Three men in immaculate dark suits stepped out onto the patio—the lead investors from the Dallas financial group, led by Marcus Thorne, an old friend and business partner who had served on my executive board for fifteen years.
"Ethan? Eleanor?" Marcus called out, squinting across the lawn. "We heard raised voices out here... my God, Eleanor! Is that you? What happened to you?!"
May you like
Marcus rushed down the stairs, staring at my wet hair and Ethan’s mud-stained suit.
"Marcus," I said, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. "I’m glad you’re here. Before you sign any paperwork with the Mitchell Group today, there's something you need to watch."
