Chapter 3
The transformation in Linnea was instantaneous and terrifying. The air around her seemed to drop in temperature. She didn't shout. She didn't cry. Instead, she moved with a sudden, fluid precision that caught Marguerite entirely off guard.
Linnea took one deliberate step forward, placing herself squarely between Marguerite and her shivering children. She stood inches from her older sister, her dark eyes locking onto Marguerite’s face with a predatory intensity that made the older woman instinctively recoil.
"Excuse me," Marguerite scoffed, trying to regain her footing and her arrogant posture. "Don't you dare step to me like that in this house, Linnea. You are a guest here by the skin of your teeth."
The sharp exchange had finally drawn the attention of the surrounding tables. Conversations halted abruptly. The clinking of glasses ceased. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the grand dining hall as dozens of eyes turned to watch the confrontation unfolding near the coat rack.
Linnea ignored the staring guests. Her entire universe had narrowed down to the cruel woman standing in front of her and the patriarch sitting at the head of the table.
"They are his grandchildren," Linnea stated.
Her voice was not loud, but it carried a lethal, resonant frequency that echoed through the silent room. She was shaking, not from fear, but from a deeply controlled, explosive maternal rage. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, holding back a tidal wave of violence.
Marguerite sneered, though a flicker of genuine apprehension crossed her eyes. "They are the product of your mistakes, Lynn. Don't expect us to treat them like royalty when you contribute absolutely nothing to this family."
Linnea didn't break eye contact with her sister, but she raised her voice just enough to ensure the man at the head of the table heard every single word.
"Edward," Linnea called out, her voice slicing through the heavy air.
At the head of the banquet table, Edward Thorn paused. At seventy years old, he was a man who ruled his family and his business empire with an iron fist. He wore a sharply tailored suit and a ridiculous, brightly colored paper birthday crown that sat askew on his thinning gray hair. An expensive wristwatch gleamed on his wrist as he held a silver steak knife.
Edward slowly chewed his food, his face a mask of complete indifference. He deliberately avoided looking at the tears streaming down his young grandchildren's faces. He avoided the sight of their empty, trembling plates. Instead, he looked at his steak, meticulously cutting another piece.
"Edward, are you going to allow this?" Linnea demanded, the controlled rage in her voice threatening to crack. "Are you going to let her starve your own blood?"
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Edward finally stopped cutting. He let out a long, heavy sigh, sounding incredibly bored by the entire ordeal. He didn't look at Faye, Della, or Beckett. He gestured dismissively toward Linnea with his steak knife, his expression cold and irritated.
"It’s one dinner, Lynn," Edward said, his voice entirely stripped of any human compassion. "Stop making a scene."
