Chapter 4: The Executioner’s Question
I pulled open the heavy front door.
“Claire, darling!” Vivian cooed instantly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She stepped forward, her suffocating, expensive floral perfume invading the fresh air of my home. She reached out, attempting to place a hand on my arm, acting as if the horrors of the cemetery had simply never occurred. “We are so, so sorry we haven’t been by sooner. The grief of losing Samuel has just been so overwhelming for us. But I’ve come to see my grandchild. We brought him a gift.”
I stood perfectly still in the doorway, blocking her entry. I looked at the woman who had told me to call a taxi while my body tore itself apart. I looked at Derek, who was checking his watch again.
“I’ve come to see my grandchild,” Vivian repeated, her smile faltering slightly at my icy stare.
“Which grandchild?” I asked softly.
Vivian’s artificial smile cracked, her lips parting in sudden confusion. Derek frowned, his brow furrowing as he stepped forward aggressively, attempting to use his physical presence to intimidate me.
“What is that supposed to mean, Claire?” Derek demanded, his voice thick with arrogant irritation. “Stop playing games. Invite us in. We need to talk about the estate accounts.”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I placed my hand on the brass doorknob and pulled the heavy mahogany door entirely open, stepping aside to give them a completely unobstructed view of my formal dining room.
The nightmare waiting for them inside was pristine.
Sitting at the head of my long dining table was Mr. Sterling, his silver hair catching the morning light, his face carved from unyielding stone. In front of him lay a stack of thick legal binders and a single, sealed medical envelope.
But Mr. Sterling was not alone.
Sitting beside the fearsome attorney was a nervous, sharply dressed woman in her late twenties. And sitting in the chair next to her, swinging his short legs and eating a piece of toast, was a five-year-old boy. The boy had Samuel’s dark hair, but the shape of his jaw, the curve of his nose, and the exact, striking shade of his blue eyes belonged undeniably, unmistakably to Derek Hale.
Derek staggered backward as if he had walked into a physical wall of force. All the blood drained from his face in a single heartbeat. His mouth opened, but he choked on his own breath, the stuffed bear slipping from his numb fingers and falling onto my porch.
“Hello, Derek,” the woman at the table said quietly. Her voice carried the heavy, undeniable weight of a ghost returning to haunt him.
Vivian let out a shrill, hysterical gasp. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes darting frantically between the five-year-old boy, the woman she had threatened into exile, and the ruthless attorney sitting at the head of the table. The matriarchal power she had wielded for decades evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a terrified, cornered old woman.
Mr. Sterling stood up. He picked up a silver fountain pen and tapped it once against the medical envelope.
“As of 8:00 a.m. this morning, a court-ordered DNA test has confirmed Leo’s paternity with absolute certainty,” Mr. Sterling announced, his voice booming effortlessly through the foyer. “Per the strict stipulations of the Hale Family Trust Morality and Lineage Clause, Derek Hale, you are hereby stripped of all executive authority, voting shares, and inheritance.”
“No!” Derek shrieked, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. “That clause is ancient! You can’t enforce that! Mother, do something!”
Mr. Sterling ignored him, turning his cold gaze to Vivian. “And Vivian Hale, due to documented, irrefutable evidence of your complicity in hiding a blood heir and attempting to defraud the trust, your personal assets and stipends are frozen indefinitely, pending a massive corporate and federal tax audit.”
