Chapter 4
Claire stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the door firmly shut behind her so Noah wouldn't have to hear the ugliness. Grant was pacing at the foot of their king-sized bed, his face a mask of flushed, arrogant entitlement.
“You are going to walk downstairs, find Madison, and you are going to beg for her forgiveness,” Grant ordered, pointing a finger at the floor. “And then you are going to call the principal at St. Jude’s and ensure her enrollment is secured for the fall.”
Claire crossed her arms, leaning casually against the bathroom door.
“I already told you, Grant. I am cutting her tuition funding tomorrow morning,” Claire said, her voice devoid of any emotion. “She can attend the public high school down the street. Maybe a dose of reality will cure her of her vicious entitlement.”
“You are not touching her trust fund!” Grant yelled, taking a threatening step forward. “That money was left by my mother! It’s for the Whitmore bloodline, not for you to use as a weapon!”
“Your mother left that trust under the management of my investment firm,” Claire corrected him, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. “And the stipulations of the trust state that educational disbursements are entirely at the discretion of the portfolio manager. Which is me.”
“You’re a monster,” Grant hissed, his breath hitching as the reality of his financial impotence set in. “You’d ruin a sixteen-year-old girl’s life over a birthday cake?”
“I am protecting an eight-year-old boy from a family of sociopaths,” Claire shot back, pushing off the door. “This wasn't just a cake, Grant, and you know it. She has bullied Noah for years. She destroys his toys, she locks him out of the house, she calls him names. And you let her do it because you’re terrified of your own daughter.”
“She’s grieving her mother!” Grant defended, grasping at straws.
“Her mother died ten years ago!” Claire yelled, finally raising her voice. “I raised Madison! I bought her clothes, I went to her parent-teacher conferences, I paid for her braces! And all she has ever done is spit in my face. I am done being the villain in her twisted little narrative.”
Grant sneered, running a hand through his thinning hair. “You really think you can just cut us off? You think Kevin and my dad will let you walk all over this family? My dad has lawyers, Claire. Real sharks. He’ll bury you in court.”
“Your dad hasn't paid his taxes in three years, Grant,” Claire smiled, a cold, predatory expression crossing her fair face. “I know because I see the ledgers. If he wants to bring lawyers into this, I will happily open the Whitmore financial books to the IRS.”
Grant froze. The color drained completely from his face, leaving his rosy skin a sickly, pale white. “You... you wouldn't.”
“I carry the company access card, Grant,” Claire said, tapping the pocket of her ruined dress. “I hold all the keys. Now get out of my bedroom. I have a cake to order.”
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Grant backed away, his arrogance entirely replaced by a creeping, desperate panic. “This isn't over, Claire.”
“No,” Claire agreed softly. “It’s just beginning.”
