Chapter 5 - The Ultimatum
Uncle Robert finally snapped.
He lunged forward, slamming his hands onto the edge of the dining table, his face mottled red with rage.
“You can’t do this!” Robert roared, spitting as he spoke. “You’re destroying our lives over some money! Margaret, you’re worth thirty million dollars! Thirty million! To you, $180,000 is couch cushions! Why are you acting like this is the end of the world just for some ungrateful girl who couldn't even keep her husband alive?”
The moment the words left his mouth, the temperature in the room dropped to absolute zero.
Mother gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Patricia squeezed her eyes shut, whispering, “No, Robert, don't...”
I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I handed Lily gently to Richard Vance, who took her with surprising gentleness, holding her against his tailored wool suit like a practiced grandfather.
I walked around the table until I stood three feet away from Uncle Robert.
At five-foot-four, I had to look up at him, but my eyes didn't waver for a single second.
“Say that again,” I said softly.
Robert puffed out his chest, doubling down on his cruelty now that he had nothing left to lose. “I said what I said! Evan was reckless on that highway, and you’ve been milking his memory for sympathy ever since! You’re a parasite, Clara, and you always have been—”
Slap.
The sound of my hand connecting with his cheek echoed off the cathedral ceiling like a pistol shot.
Robert staggered back, stumbling against the bookshelf and sending a row of decorative plates crashing to the hardwood floor. He clutched his cheek, staring at me in absolute shock.
“Don't you ever,” I whispered, my voice shaking with a quiet, lethal intensity, “speak of Evan that way again. And don't you ever minimize what your greed has cost my daughter.”
Robert opened his mouth to curse me out, but Marcus—the former federal marshal—stepped out from the hallway, his hand resting casually inside his jacket, his cold eyes fixed squarely on Robert’s throat. Robert closed his mouth, swallowed hard, and slumped back against the wall.
Grandma Margaret stepped forward, walking slowly until she stood beside me. She placed one gloved hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then she looked at Patricia and Robert.
“You have forty-eight hours,” Grandma announced, her voice echoing through the silent house.
Patricia looked up, her eyes wide with desperate hope. “Forty-eight hours for what?”
“Forty-eight hours to pack your personal belongings, clear out your bank accounts of any untainted funds, and vacate this property,” Grandma said coldly. “I am foreclosing on the secondary mortgage note currently held by the Whitmore Family Trust on this house. By Monday morning, this deed will be transferred into a new trust bearing one name and one name only: Clara Whitmore-Davis.”
Patricia let out a piercing shriek of absolute devastation. “You’re throwing us out on the street?! Where are we supposed to go?!”
“Ask your son in the Caymans,” Grandma replied without a shred of sympathy. “Or perhaps you can check into a motel. You have forty-eight hours. After that, Marcus will return with the county sheriff to evict you.”
She turned to Richard Vance. “Draft the paperwork tonight. I want the title transferred before I fly back to Boston on Tuesday.”
“Consider it done, Margaret,” Richard nodded.
May you like
Grandma turned to me, her expression softening instantly as she looked into my eyes. Her gloved hand gently cupped my cheek.
“Come, Clara,” she said softly, her voice carrying all the warmth and love that had been stolen from me for two long years. “Let’s go home. You and Lily are coming back to Boston with me tonight. And I promise you—you will never have to count pennies again.”
