Chapter 5 - The Gates Of Hudson Valley
The wrought-iron gates of the Whitmore estate loomed out of the autumn mist like the jaw of a giant beast. Beyond them, the sprawling neo-classical mansion blazed with light, classical music drifting faintly across the manicured lawns where luxury cars lined the circular driveway.
Grant’s matte-black SUV glided smoothly through the open gates, driven by Marcus, who sat in the front seat with a grim, tight jaw. In the back, Grant sat between Norah and Hazel. He had dressed them in brand-new, ivory cashmere dresses he’d had delivered that afternoon. They looked like little princesses, though they still sat close to him, their small hands clutching the fabric of his coat.
“Remember,” Grant said softly, kissing the top of Norah’s head. “Whatever happens inside, you stay right beside me. No matter what.”
The car stopped under the grand portico.
When the door opened, the cool evening air hit them, carrying the scent of damp earth and expensive perfume. Grant stepped out first, offering his hands to his daughters. They slid out, their eyes wide as they looked up at the towering white columns and the bright glass doors of the mansion.
They walked up the grand stone steps, Marcus trailing quietly behind them like a shadow.
Inside, the grand foyer was a swirl of silk, diamonds, and muffled laughter. Waiters in crisp black tuxedos navigated the crowd with silver trays of champagne. At the center of it all stood Beatrice Whitmore.
At seventy, Beatrice still commanded the room with the posture of a queen and the cold, calculated eyes of a chess master. She wore an emerald-green silk gown that shimmered under the crystal chandelier, laughing lightly at something a local senator was whispering to her.
Then, she turned her head.
Her laughter died in her throat.
The room didn't instantly go silent, but around Beatrice, the air seemed to freeze. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, locked onto Grant as he walked through the double doors.
May you like
And then she saw the two little girls standing beside him.
Beatrice’s face lost every trace of color, turning the shade of old parchment. The glass of champagne in her hand trembled, sloshing over the rim.
