Chapter 4
The penthouse atop the St. Jude Spire was warm, quiet, and scented with fresh pine and vanilla.
On the plush velvet sofa, Beckett lay curled under a cashmere throw, clutching a mug of warm honey milk while his eyelids fluttered in deep, exhausted sleep. Della and Faye sat cross-legged at the low glass table, methodically devouring bowls of chicken broth, toasted brioche, and golden roasted potatoes.
"Mommy," Faye said softly, resting her chin on her hand. "Why does Aunt Marguerite hate us so much? Did we do something wrong at the party?"
Linnea walked over from the kitchen, kneeling beside the table so she was at eye level with her daughters. She smoothed a stray lock of dark hair behind Faye’s ear.
"You did nothing wrong, Faye. Neither did Della, nor Beckett."
"Then why did Grandfather look away?" Della asked, her voice trembling slightly. "When Beckett cried, Grandfather looked at his meat. He didn't even say hello to Beckett. He said we were making a scene."
Linnea’s chest tightened with a sorrow so deep it turned into liquid fire in her veins. She took Della’s little hand in hers, kissing the knuckles.
"Grandfather is a man who loves mirrors, Della. He only loves things that look like power, and he only respects people who obey him. When I took you three and left this city six years ago, I refused to let him control your lives. He cannot forgive that."
"Are we poor, Mommy?" Faye asked, looking down at her worn floral dress. "Aunt Marguerite said you crawled out of a ditch."
A dry, dangerous laugh escaped Linnea’s lips. She stood up, walking toward a heavy rosewood writing desk against the glass wall overlooking the glittering city skyline. From the bottom drawer, she lifted an antique leather ledger bound with a silver clasp—the private records of her mother, Eleanor Thorn.
"Aunt Marguerite measures wealth by the size of the diamonds her father buys her," Linnea said, unlocking the silver clasp. "She does not know what real power looks like. Six years ago, when your grandfather tried to marry me off to a corrupt shipping magnate to cover his debts, I walked away with zero dollars in my pocket. But I took something far more valuable."
"What did you take?" Della asked, wide-eyed.
"Mother’s ledger," Linnea whispered. "Every offshore account, every hidden shell company, every corrupt politician Edward ever bribed. While they thought I was starving in exile, raising three babies in drafty apartments, Julian and I were slowly buying their debts. Dollar by dollar. Note by note."
The heavy oak penthouse door opened with a soft chime. Julian entered, shaking rainwater from his coat.
"Is it done?" Linnea asked without looking up from the skyline.
"The eviction notice has been served," Julian replied, stepping to the desk. "Edward nearly suffered an apoplexy on the oriental rug. Marguerite is threatening to burn the manor down before you can sleep in it."
Linnea turned, her dark eyes flashing in the city glow. "Tell the tactical team to escort them off the premises by three o'clock in the morning. If Marguerite tries to light a single match, cuff her and throw her in the county lockup."
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"And Edward?"
"Leave his paper crown on the iron gates," Linnea said coldly. "He should remember who stripped him of his kingdom."
