Chapter 3
The afternoon heat seemed to curdle over the lawn. No one moved to help Elfrida up; the wealthy cousins who had laughed at Effie minutes earlier were now staring at the flagstones, desperately praying they had not caught Lysander’s eye.
"Lysander... good God, man."
The voice came from Uncle Bartholomew, the seventy-year-old family patriarch who served as the titular head of the Farrow Estate Trust. He hobbled forward, his silver-headed cane tapping against the stone, his pale face flushed with indignation.
"You hit a woman of your own blood? In front of your kin? Have you completely lost your mind?"
Lysander did not turn his body; he simply shifted his gaze, his pupils fixing onto the old man like twin gun barrels. "She starved my child for sport, Bartholomew. If you speak another word in her defense, I will take your cane and break it over your knee."
Bartholomew choked on his own breath, taking an instinctive step backward. "You... you can't threaten us like common thugs! This estate is governed by the trust charter! You have duties—"
Lysander reached into his tailored suit jacket, pulled out an encrypted black smartphone, and tapped a single contact on the screen. He tapped the speakerphone icon with his signet ring.
A smooth, razor-sharp voice answered on the first ring.
"Mr. Farrow."
"Julian," Lysander spoke into the speaker, his voice smooth and conversational. "Execute the default clauses on the North Ridge estate lease. Pull the operational liquidity lines for the Farrow family trust accounts ending in zero-nine and four-one. Do it right now."
On the ground, Elfrida gasped, clutching her stained dress as she tried to pull herself upright. "No! Lysander, no! Those accounts pay the estate staff! The groundskeepers, the taxes—"
"The request is confirmed, Mr. Farrow," Julian’s voice came back through the speaker, crisp and detached. "The wire transfers have been frozen. The credit facilities associated with Elfrida Farrow and Bartholomew Farrow are officially suspended under Article 14 of the capital restructuring agreement."
"Thank you, Julian," Lysander said, and hung up.
Within five seconds, a cascade of electronic chimes and notifications began ringing from handbags, blazer pockets, and smartwatch displays all across the terrace.
A younger cousin dropped his phone into his lap, his jaw trembling. "My card... my corporate card just declined on my overseas accounts."
"The trust dividend," a woman whispered, staring in horror at an email notification from J.P. Morgan. "It’s been retracted under legal audit!"
At that moment, the head catering manager walked out through the terrace doors, carrying a wireless credit terminal that was blinking red. He looked around the silent, terrified gathering, completely confused by the atmosphere.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Farrow?" the caterer called out tentatively, looking at Elfrida covered in food scraps. "The secondary authorization for today’s service just failed. The company policy requires an active authorization hold, or we are required to pack up the food and leave immediately."
Elfrida let out a pathetic, strangled wail, tears streaming through the mascara on her face. "Lysander! Please! Look at what you’re doing to us! Our family name—"
"This family name was built by parasites who fed on my late wife's investments," Lysander cut her off, his baritone slicing through her hysterics. "You lived in this house because I allowed it. You ate at this table because I wrote the checks. You forgot whose hand fed you, Elfrida. So now you will starve."
Effie tugged softly at his overcoat. Her small face was still damp from tears, but she looked up at him with utter trust. "Daddy? Are we going to see Mrs. Gable now?"
Lysander’s expression softened instantly. He bent down and scooped the little girl effortlessly into his arms, lifting her against his chest. Effie wrapped her small arms around his neck, burying her face into the warm, safe wool of his coat to escape the staring eyes of the crowd.
May you like
"Yes, little bird," Lysander murmured into her soft hair. "We’re going home."
He walked down the stone path toward the iron gates, his polished shoes crunching over the gravel driveway. Behind him, the sounds of panicked arguing and weeping broke out on the ruined terrace, but Lysander did not look back.
