Chapter 7 - The Empty Estate
It was 2:00 AM when the rain began to fall over the city.
The heavy iron gates of the Prescott estate swung open automatically as a black Maybach pulled slowly up the winding gravel driveway.
I sat in the rear seat, still wearing my midnight-black velvet gown and the Vane Emeralds, looking through the tinted window at the towering brick mansion I had called home for eight long years.
The house was dark, save for a single light burning in the formal kitchen on the ground floor.
The driver opened my door, holding a large black umbrella over my head as I stepped out onto the wet stone path. Julian Sterling walked beside me, carrying a thin leather briefcase containing the physical execution deeds for the property.
I stepped into the grand foyer.
The house smelled stale—a mixture of cold roasted salmon, wilted flowers, and rain.
Sitting on the bottom step of the grand mahogany staircase was Weston.
His tuxedo jacket was gone, thrown carelessly onto the floor beside a puddle of rainwater. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, stained with sweat and dirt, his hair a chaotic mess falling over his bloodshot, weeping eyes. He was clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey he had pulled from the basement bar.
Beside him on the stairs sat Claudia, looking twenty years older, her makeup ruined by hours of crying, her heavy pearl necklace sitting crooked on her neck.
When the front door opened and I walked into the foyer, Weston dropped the whiskey bottle. It clattered against the stone floor, spilling amber liquid across the imported Carrara marble he had been so worried about six hours ago.
Weston scrambled to his feet on trembling legs, stumbling forward until he reached the edge of the hallway rug. He didn't come closer; the sight of the four security guards standing behind me kept him pinned to the spot.
“Elowen...” Weston choked out, his hands reaching out, trembling violently. “You... you came home.”
I stopped ten feet away from him, looking down at his disheveled, broken form with an unreadable expression.
“This is not my home, Weston,” I said softly. “It never was. It was simply a cage I built for myself while I waited for you to grow into a man.”
Claudia stepped down from the staircase, her voice cracking into a desperate, groveling sob. “Elowen... please, my child... talk to us! We were wrong! I was wrong! I was terrible to you! I’ll clean the dishes! I’ll clean the whole house! Just... please don't take our home! Don't take Weston’s company!”
Julian Sterling stepped forward, opening his leather briefcase and pulling out two sets of legal documents.
“Mrs. Prescott,” Julian announced calmly, his voice devoid of pity. “This property was purchased eight years ago through a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands—a holding company entirely owned by the Vane-Heritage Trust. Weston never owned this estate. He was merely a tenant-at-will, paying rent under a subsidized lease guaranteed by Chairwoman Vane.”
Weston’s head snapped toward Julian, his jaw dropping in absolute horror. “What...? No... no! My father bought this house! He left it to me in his will!”
“Your father was thirty million dollars in debt when he died, Mr. Prescott,” Julian corrected ruthlessly. “The Vane-Heritage Trust quietly settled his liabilities and placed the estate into a protective trust so you wouldn't be forced into public bankruptcy as a young man.”
Weston fell to his knees directly onto the spilled whiskey on the marble floor.
He looked at me—his eyes filled with a terrifying, crushing realization that every single comfort, every piece of status, every single dollar he had ever touched in his adult life had not come from his own intellect or strength.
It had all come from the quiet, unpolished girl he had left behind in the kitchen to wash dishes.
“You...” Weston whimpered, tears pouring down his cheeks, soaking his shirt collar. “You gave me everything...”
“And you threw it away,” I said softly, “for a drink of cheap praise from a socialite who abandoned you the second the lights went out.”
Julian set a silver pen and a blue folder on the hall table.
“You have until 8:00 AM tomorrow to clear your personal clothing from the premises, Mr. Prescott,” Julian said. “The divorce papers and property settlement forms are on the table. Chairwoman Vane is offering a lump-sum settlement of one hundred thousand dollars—provided you sign the full non-disclosure agreement and vacate the property without litigation.”
Weston looked at the divorce papers on the table, then looked up at me, his eyes filled with a pathetic, desperate plea.
“What if I don't sign?” he gasped, his voice trembling. “What if I refuse to leave? What if I fight for you, Elowen? What if I prove to you that I can change?!”
I took two steps forward, looking down into his swollen, weeping face.
“If you don't sign by 8:00 AM, Weston,” I whispered, my voice cold enough to freeze the water in his veins, “my legal team will release the complete audit reports of your personal offshore accounts to the Department of Justice. You won't be living in a small apartment on a hundred thousand dollars. You’ll be living in a federal penitentiary for twelve years for corporate wire fraud.”
Weston froze.
May you like
He looked at the pen. He looked at the blue folder.
Slowly, agonizingly, like a man signing his own death warrant, he reached out his trembling hand, picked up the silver pen, and signed his name at the bottom of the divorce decree.
