“Ethan Prescott is not Margaret’s biological son,” Eleanor said, sealing the doom of the Prescott family. “She was barren. She secretly adopted him to portray the perfect family image. He has zero legal right to the Whitmore fortune.”
I stared at the paper, my mind racing. “Then who is the heir?”
Eleanor smiled, a ghostly, triumphant expression. “Before Margaret locked me away, I had a daughter. I gave her up for adoption to protect her from my sister. My daughter grew up, married, and had a child of her own. A child whose blood carries the sole legal right to reclaim every cent of the Whitmore empire.”
Eleanor pointed a trembling finger at me.
“Margaret spent thirty years trying to track down my bloodline to control it. She thought she had won when Ethan married her. She thought she could control her, and when she couldn’t, she tried to lock her away.”
I looked at the name on the DNA report, the absolute horror and perfect justice of the universe crashing down on me.
The true, sole heir to the multi-billion dollar empire Margaret Prescott had stolen wasn’t Ethan.
It was my daughter, Emily.
The ballroom of the Grand Charlotte Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, imported orchids, and the absolute pinnacle of Southern high society. Tonight was the Prescott 30th Anniversary Gala and the official announcement of the Crestview Harbor merger.
Despite their offshore accounts being frozen, Margaret had pushed forward with the gala, desperate to project an image of invulnerability to her investors and the press. The room was packed with state senators, media syndicates, and corporate titans.
They thought it was a coronation. I knew it was an execution.
I did not enter through the service doors. I walked through the main brass-plated double doors of the ballroom in my full Class A military dress uniform, every medal gleaming under the chandeliers.
To my right walked Emily. She wore a stunning, emerald-green evening gown. The bruises on her face were cleverly concealed by makeup, but her posture was flawless, her head held high. She looked every inch a queen walking into a room full of thieves.
To my left, David Aris pushed a sleek wheelchair. Sitting in it, dressed in a beautiful vintage silk dress, with a portable oxygen concentrator resting quietly at her feet, was Eleanor Whitmore.
Flanking us, spreading out to secure the perimeter of the ballroom, were six agents from the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division, moving with quiet, devastating authority.
The orchestral music swelled, then faltered, screeching to a halt as the conductor noticed the federal agents securing the exits. A ripple of confusion, then absolute silence, washed over the five hundred guests.
On the main stage, standing behind a crystal podium, Margaret Prescott froze mid-speech. Her polished smile cracked. Below the stage, Ethan and Brandon stood with their champagne flutes suspended in the air, their faces draining of color.
I walked straight down the center aisle, the sharp click of my boots echoing in the cavernous silence.
“What is the meaning of this?” Margaret demanded, her voice shrill, echoing through the microphone. “Security! Remove these people immediately!”
