Chapter 3 - The Auction of a Dynasty
The ballroom was now a court of public opinion,
and the verdict was unanimous.
Preston Whitaker was a man who had sold his soul for a seat he didn't earn,
and now,
the seat was being pulled out from under him.
I walked toward the center of the dance floor,
where the orchestra had long since stopped playing.
"The Whitaker Foundation was built on the Hart trust,"
"and tonight,"
"that trust is officially dissolved."
I looked at the CFO,
Mr. Henderson,
who was standing by the bar,
looking as though he wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
"Mr. Henderson,"
I called out,
"is it true that Preston Whitaker authorized the sale of Hart property to cover his personal losses?"
The old man looked at Preston,
then at the legal documents on the screen,
and finally at me.
"Yes,
Mrs. Whitaker,"
he whispered,
his voice cracking.
"I have the emails."
Preston lunged at him,
a snarl of rage on his face,
but Julian Cross grabbed him by the collar,
pinning him against a marble pillar.
"Don't make it worse,
Preston,"
Julian said,
his voice like a grinding stone.
"The police are already in the lobby."
"You have the right to remain silent,"
"though we both know you’ve never been good at that."
Sloane was weeping now,
her mascara running in dark streaks down her face,
ruining the 'simple' elegance she had tried to flaunt.
"I didn't know!"
she kept crying.
"I didn't know anything!"
"Ignorance is not a defense for grand larceny,"
I told her,
handing the Midnight Mask to a security guard to be placed in a velvet box.
The guests were now whispering,
not about the scandal,
but about me.
They had seen me for years as the 'quiet' Mrs. Whitaker,
the woman who stayed in the background,
the woman who supported her husband’s every whim.
They didn't know that I had been the one making the deals,
the one managing the assets,
and the one who had finally decided that the name Whitaker was a stain on my lineage.
"Preston,"
I said,
standing inches away from him,
"you told me tonight would be a legacy presentation."
"You were right."
"This is the legacy you’ve built."
"A room full of people who will never speak your name again."
"A bank account that is a vacuum,"
"and a wife who has already signed the divorce papers."
I pulled a small envelope from my clutch and tucked it into his breast pocket,
right over his frantic heart.
"Consider this my contribution to the charity,"
"the charity of your legal defense."
"You’re going to need it."
The doors at the back of the room swung open,
and four uniformed officers stepped into the light.
May you like
The charity masquerade was over,
and the real masks were coming off one by one.
