Chapter 4 - The Winter Drive
Wallace lunged.
It wasn't a calculated move; it was the thrashing of a cornered animal realizing the walls of its cage had vanished into thin air. He reached out to grab my wounded shoulder, his fingers clawing for the torn fabric.
I didn't flinch. I took a half-step back, shifting Margot safely behind my center of gravity, and brought my forearm up in a sharp, rising parry. Wallace’s wrist struck my arm, and the momentum spun him off-balance. His hip slammed against the edge of the heavy mahogany table, sending two crystal goblets crashing to the floor.
“Touch me again, Wallace,” I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper, “and the police won’t just be coming here to serve an eviction. They’ll be taking you out in handcuffs for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. The wine glass you smashed on my shoulder left three deep lacerations. The emergency room doctor will document them thoroughly.”
Wallace froze, his breath rattling in his throat as he gripped the table to steady himself.
Estelle was sobbing now—not quiet, dignified tears, but the frantic, breathless weeping of a woman watching her entire social architecture collapse into dust. “Desmond... please. Not the house. What will we tell the club? What will people say?”
“You can tell them the truth,” I said. “Tell them the leech decided to stop paying your bills.”
I turned my back on them.
Margot’s small arms were locked around my neck, her breathing shaky against my collarbone. I carried her out of the dining room, our footsteps echoing on the cold marble of the grand entryway. Behind us, Cecilia’s screams followed, shrill and hysterical, accusing Preston of being useless, demanding that Wallace do something, while Preston yelled back about his credit score and personal guarantees.
The brass front door closed behind us with a heavy, definitive thud, cutting off the noise like a severed wire.
The December air was biting and clean. Snow was beginning to fall in quiet, heavy flakes, coating the long gravel driveway and the dark manicured hedges of the Dover estate.
I walked down the stone steps toward my old Subaru, parked beside Preston’s gleaming blue Aston Martin. The contrast was almost comical: a sixty-thousand-dollar winter beater parked next to a quarter-million-dollar SUV that its driver could no longer afford to insure.
I opened the passenger door and set Margot carefully onto the heated seat. I reached into the back for her warm wool coat, wrapping it around her green velvet dress before kneeling down in the snow beside the open door.
Margot looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed, her small nose pink from the cold. She reached out a hesitant, gloved hand and touched the dark, damp stain on my shoulder.
“Does it hurt, Daddy?” she whispered.
“Not anymore, sweetheart,” I said, offering her the gentlest smile I could muster. “Just a scratch. The wine looks a lot scarier than it is.”
“Aunt Cecilia was mean,” she murmured, looking down at her lap. “She said Mommy would be ashamed of me.”
I took her small face in both my hands, ignoring the sharp sting in my shoulder blade. “Listen to me, Margot. Look at me.”
She met my eyes.
“Your mother loved you more than her own life,” I said, every word slow, deliberate, and fiercely certain. “If she were here tonight, she would have told you that you are the smartest, bravest, most beautiful girl in the world. And that dress? That green dress is the best thing that has ever walked into that house. Do you hear me?”
A tiny, trembling smile broke through her tears, and she nodded, sniffing. “Can we go home now?”
“Not just home,” I said, buckling her seatbelt. “We’re going to the Four Seasons downtown. We’re going to get the biggest suite on the top floor, order double hot chocolates with extra marshmallows from room service, and watch movies until two in the morning. How does that sound?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?”
“Really.”
I shut her door, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in. The engine turned over with a reliable hum. I engaged the all-wheel drive, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the circular drive.
In the rearview mirror, the warm lights of Twelve Stonehaven Way glowed against the dark forest. Through the massive front bay windows, I could see two silhouettes—Wallace pacing frantically with his phone glued to his ear, and Cecilia collapsed on the sofa, her hands covering her face.
May you like
I put the car in drive and pressed the gas.
The tires crunched through the fresh snow, carrying us down the private road and out through the iron gates, leaving the empty monument to Wallace Mercer’s pride behind us in the dark.
