Chapter 6 - The Breaking Point
Claire stood up from the library table, her body shaking with rage.
"Get out," she said to Brandon.
Brandon blinked, taken aback. "Claire, calm down. You're emotional right now. We can talk about this in the guesthouse—"
"I said get out!" Claire picked up a heavy glass paperweight from the desk and slammed it onto the mahogany table. "You lied to me! You stole from my mother! You forged my name! And you let your mother treat my family like servants in our own home!"
"Claire, listen to me—" Brandon tried to take her arm.
Marcus Sterling immediately stepped between them, his tall frame blocking Brandon completely. "Mr. Whitaker, I strongly advise you not to make physical contact with my client or her family. Sheriff Vance is currently waiting at the end of the driveway."
Brandon looked at Marcus, then at Claire, then at me. His smooth, confident facade was completely gone, replaced by the ugly, desperate glare of a man who had been cornered.
"You think you've won, old woman?" Brandon spat, glaring at me over Marcus's shoulder. "Without my management, this property is a money pit! You'll be broke in two years!"
"I was managing this estate while you were still failing algebra in high school, Brandon," I replied coldly. "You have two hours to pack your personal clothing from the guesthouse. Anything related to Whitaker Holdings, tools, or equipment remains on this property under court order pending the criminal fraud investigation."
"Criminal fraud?!" Brandon gasped.
"The District Attorney was handed the audit files at nine o'clock this morning," Marcus added with a thin smile. "I recommend you hire a criminal defense attorney before the afternoon is over."
Brandon turned and stormed out of the library, slamming the heavy double doors so hard the glass panes rattled in their frames.
Upstairs, the sound of Donna frantically dragging suitcases down the hallway echoed through the ceiling.
Claire collapsed back into her chair, covering her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. I walked around the desk, pulled my daughter into my arms, and held her tight against my shoulder.
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"I'm sorry, Mom," Claire sobbed into my sweater. "I'm so sorry... I let him do this to us..."
"Shh," I whispered, kissing the top of her head as the snow began to fall outside the tall windows. "You didn't do this, Claire. You were protecting your children. But now, we protect you."
