Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
Beatrice Whitmore excused herself from the senator with a sharp, breathless nod, her emerald gown rustling loudly against the marble floor as she marched directly toward Grant.
Her eyes were blazing with a furious, controlled panic. She ignored the girls completely at first, fixing her gaze entirely on her son.
“Grant,” she hissed, her voice low enough not to draw the attention of the surrounding guests, though her tone was laced with venom. “What on earth is the meaning of this spectacle? Dragging children into a private function... have you completely lost your mind? Get them out of here before you make a fool of yourself—and this family.”
Grant didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood taller, shielding Norah and Hazel behind the shelter of his coat.
“A fool, Mother?” Grant asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Is that what you call someone who finally uncovers the truth?”
Beatrice’s eyes flickered, just for a fraction of a second, toward the girls. Norah pressed her face tightly against Grant’s trousers, while Hazel glared up at the older woman with a fierce, instinctive mistrust.
“I don't know what garbage you’ve been filling your head with,” Beatrice said, her chin lifting in defiance. “You’ve always been prone to dramatics ever since Elena passed. Those street urchins—wherever you dragged them from—have nothing to do with us. Security!” she called out sharply, raising a hand. “Escort this man and these... these children off the property immediately.”
None of the security guards moved. Marcus had already stepped quietly into their path, flashing a heavy-duty corporate badge and a cold stare that kept them rooted to their spots.
Grant stepped forward, invading his mother’s personal space. The height difference was stark, but Beatrice did not back down; she glared up at him with hardened malice.
“You told me they died,” Grant whispered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “You stood by my side in the hospital, looked me in the eye, and told me my daughters took their last breath before they even opened their eyes.”
“The doctors confirmed it,” Beatrice spat back, her voice tight. “The complications were catastrophic. Why can’t you just accept that?”
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“Because,” Grant said, pulling a folded document from his breast pocket and letting it snap open in front of her face, “Dr. Thorne left a paper trail. And Nurse Evelyn Vance kept receipts.”
Beatrice stared at the hospital ledger note. Her breath hitched. The carefully constructed facade of the matriarch began to crumble, line by line, crack by crack.
