Chapter 6 - Bloodlines and Lies
In Boston, the walls were closing in on Phoebe.
Cordelia was not a woman who took 'no' for an answer. By midday, she had arrived at the Four Seasons penthouse accompanied by two armed private security guards and Dr. Robert Campbell, the chief of genetics at Massachusetts General Hospital and a lifelong family friend.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Charles demanded as he stood in the foyer, blocking the entrance to the living room. "I told you, Mother, we are not subjecting Phoebe to this circus!"
"Step aside, Charles," Cordelia said with terrifying stillness. "Either this doctor draws her blood right now, or I summon an emergency board meeting of Stanhope Enterprises at three o'clock to vote on your immediate suspension as CEO on grounds of gross breach of fiduciary duty."
"You can't do that!"
"I control fifty-one percent of the voting trust until an heir is born, Charles. Did you forget that?" Cordelia stepped right into his face. "You wanted to bring a new wife into this family. Let’s see if she’s carrying a Stanhope."
From the bedroom hallway, Phoebe emerged. She had spent the last two hours applying subtle makeup to look tragically pale and frail. She wore an ivory cashmere sweater over her slight baby bump, her eyes red-rimmed.
"Charles, please," Phoebe sobbed, wrapping her arms around his waist. "If this is what your mother needs to stop hating me, I’ll do it. I have nothing to hide. I love you."
Charles looked at her with a mixture of overwhelming adoration and defensive fury. "See? She has nothing to hide! Are you satisfied, Mother?"
Dr. Campbell stepped forward with a sterile collection kit. Phoebe sat on the sofa, extending her slender arm. She winced gracefully as the needle drew two vials of dark crimson blood. A cheek swab was taken from Charles.
"The samples will be delivered by my private courier directly to the hospital’s forensic lab," Cordelia stated firmly. "No intermediaries. Results will be sealed and delivered only to me in twenty-four hours."
Phoebe lowered her gaze, offering a saintly, mournful nod.
What Cordelia didn't see, however, was Phoebe’s trembling hand beneath the cashmere sweater as she slipped a folded cocktail napkin into Dr. Campbell’s coat pocket while he was leaning down to pack his kit.
Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Campbell walked toward the elevators in the hotel lobby. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the napkin. Written on it in hurried blue ink was an account number and a single line:
*$1,000,000 into the Cayman account. Report a 99.9% match. Or your daughter’s malpractice lawsuit goes to the Boston Globe.*
Dr. Campbell stared at the paper, his heart slamming against his ribs. But before he could step into the elevator, two men in tailored charcoal suits stepped out from behind the marble pillars and flanked him.
May you like
"Dr. Campbell?" one of them said, flashing a private investigator badge. "Mrs. Hannah Stanhope sends her regards. We suggest you take a short walk with us before you make a decision that puts you in federal prison."
***
