Chapter 4 - The Mother’s Plea
The silence that followed was suffocating. Board members began packing their leather briefcases, avoiding Arthur’s furious gaze. Within five minutes, every outside director had slipped out the side doors, leaving only Blake, Arthur, and myself.
Then the main doors pushed open again.
My mother, Eleanor, stepped inside, clutching an ostrich-leather handbag. She was dressed for a celebratory luncheon, wearing a pastel yellow suit and pearls.
“Arthur, darling, what is taking so long? The reservation at Le Bernardin was for twelve-thirty—”
She stopped mid-sentence as her eyes landed on me.
Her hand drifted to her throat. “Ethan?”
“Hello, Mother,” I said.
She glanced between Arthur’s pale face, Blake’s trembling hands, and the papers strewn across the table. For a second, a flash of genuine emotion passed through her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by that familiar, brittle disdain she reserved only for me.
“What are you doing here dressed like that?” she asked, looking at my tailored navy suit. “Did you come to disrupt your brother’s promotion? On the day he takes over the chairmanship?”
“There is no promotion, Eleanor,” Arthur muttered hoarsely from his chair. “He owns the notes. He owns the company.”
Eleanor blinked, processing the words. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, her icy demeanor melted into an oily, theatrical warmth. She stepped forward, reaching out with both hands to touch my sleeve.
“Ethan... my sweet boy,” she whispered, tears miraculously welling in her eyes. “I knew it. I always told your father you had the Vance brilliance in you. You did this to save us, didn't you? You saw that your brother was under pressure, and you stepped in like a good older brother to protect the family name.”
I took one step back, letting her hands fall into empty air.
“Don’t touch me,” I said.
Eleanor’s smile faltered. “Ethan, please. We are family. Blood is thicker than water. Whatever happened in the past—”
“In the past?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, razor-sharp. “Five years ago, Blake shoved June’s face into sugar glass. A shard cut her cheek half an inch below her right eye. She bled on the linoleum while you checked whether your son’s Italian coat was stained.”
“It was an accident!” Eleanor cried out, pressing her palms together. “Blake was just playing! He has always been playful!”
“He was twenty-six years old,” I answered. “And when I held my bleeding child, you told me June was making a scene and ruining the afternoon. Dad gave me an ultimatum: apologize to Blake for shoving him away, or lose my family.”
I walked toward Eleanor until she was forced to look directly into my eyes.
“Not once in five years did you call,” I said. “Not on June’s eleventh birthday. Not on her twelfth. Not when she had to get three stitches removed. Not when she asked me why Grandma didn't love her.”
Eleanor swallowed hard, her face turning pale beneath her foundation.
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“You didn’t lose a son five years ago,” I told her. “You discarded an appliance you thought was broken. Today, the bill has arrived.”
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