Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The color drained entirely from Judson’s face. He took a sudden half-step backward, bumping against a massive floral arrangement of white roses.
“What... what are you talking about?” Judson stammered, his usual boardroom authority evaporating in an instant. “That’s... that’s a family arrangement. We needed a bridge loan until the trust fund distribution cleared next month.”
“A bridge loan?” Greer laughed—a sharp, barking sound that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. “Mr. Winslow, charging an unauthorized corporate AMEX card issued for international shipping liabilities isn't a bridge loan. That’s wire fraud and grand larceny. Our corporate fraud division has already flagged the transaction, and the bank is currently reversing the merchant payout.”
Blythe let out a breathless gasp, pressing a diamond-encrusted hand to her chest. “Judson! Tell me you didn't use her work card! What will people say? The caterers are downstairs! They’ll stop serving!”
“Let them stop serving,” a cold, firm voice cut through the chaos.
Thatcher stepped back up the stairs, coming face-to-face with Sloan. He didn't raise his voice, but every person in the foyer could hear every single word.
“Thatcher, baby, don't look at me like that,” Sloan whimpered, reaching out to touch his lapel. “We can fix this. We can pay her back—!”
“Don't touch me,” Thatcher said, his voice flat and dead.
He reached up, unpinned the white rose boutonnière from his lapel, and dropped it onto the marble step between them.
“I spent the last year believing I was marrying someone who was spoiled, yes, but fundamentally kind,” Thatcher said, looking straight into Sloan’s wide, terrified eyes. “I watched her push her injured sister down a flight of stairs. I listened to her laugh about it. And now I find out your entire family operates like a criminal enterprise, stealing corporate assets to pay for our dinner.”
“Thatcher, please!” Blythe cried out, rushing forward. “It’s just a misunderstanding! Every family has financial hiccups—!”
“My family doesn't,” Thatcher interrupted, turning his back on her entirely. He looked down at me in the wheelchair. “Merritt. Are you alright?”
“I will be,” I said. “Once the police report is filed.”
Sloan let out a hysterical wail, sinking down onto the marble stairs in her multi-thousand-dollar gown, sobbing not because her relationship was over, but because the cameras were no longer capturing her triumph.
“Police report?” Judson roared, stepping forward with his fists clenched. “You would put your own sister in jail over a bookkeeping dispute? Over a wedding? After everything we gave you?”
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“You gave me nothing, Dad,” I said, my voice steady, cold, and final. “You took my college savings. You shredded my prom dress. You treated me like a utility closet for Sloan’s life. And yesterday, you nearly crippled me permanently and stole my corporate funds.”
I looked at Greer. “Let’s call the local precinct. Let’s get the formal report filed for unauthorized financial access and physical assault.”
