Chapter 7 - The Confession Under The Chandelier
The murmur of the gala continued around them, completely unaware that a private earthquake was tearing through the center of the room. A few guests cast curious glances their way, whispering behind gloved hands, but none dared approach the fierce tableau between mother and son.
Beatrice looked down at the ledger entry. Her hands, usually so steady, began to shake violently.
“You... you went digging through sealed hospital archives?” she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time.
“I didn't have to dig very deep,” Grant replied, his eyes cold as ice. “You got sloppy, Mother. Or maybe you just thought nobody would ever care enough to check up on dead ghosts. Why? Why would you do that? What kind of monster steals her own granddaughters from a grieving father?”
Beatrice let out a harsh, bitter laugh, her eyes flashing with a desperate, warped justification.
“You think I did it out of malice?” she snapped, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a fierce hiss. “You were a broken man, Grant! Elena was gone. You were drowning in grief, locked in that empty penthouse, refusing to eat, refusing to live. You couldn't even take care of yourself, let alone two helpless infants!”
“So you traded them away? You handed my flesh and blood to a criminal like Evelyn Vance like stray dogs?” Grant’s voice thundered, causing a nearby waiter to drop a silver spoon with a sharp clatter.
“I didn't trade them!” Beatrice defended herself, her voice rising in defensive hysteria. “I arranged for them to be adopted by a wealthy, discreet family upstate! I wanted them protected from your depression, from the media circus surrounding Elena’s death! I gave them a secure future!”
“A secure future?” Grant pointed down at Hazel and Norah, whose eyes were wide with terror as they listened to the shouting. “Is that what you call a damp, freezing basement? Is that what you call being sold in a alley for five hundred dollars like broken furniture?”
Beatrice froze. The color drained completely from her face.
“Sold... what are you talking about?” she stammered, her iron armor finally shattering. “The family... the agency I hired... they were supposed to—”
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“The agency was a front for criminals, Mother,” Grant cut her off, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. “Your precious secret arrangement broke down, and my daughters ended up on the freezing streets while you stood here drinking champagne and playing society queen.”
Beatrice staggered backward, her emerald gown catching on the edge of a mahogany side table. She reached out, her fingers grasping empty air as she realized the full, catastrophic weight of her arrogance.
