Chapter 10 - Whose House Is It Anyway?
The foyer erupted into total chaos.
"Twenty minutes?!" Brenda screamed, pushing past Cynthia. "Are you insane? My children are in the den! We have dinner in the oven!"
"Then you’d better pack fast, Brenda," I said from my wheelchair, my voice steady, ice-cold, and entirely devoid of the meekness I had carried for eight years. "Because at six-twenty, Deputy Miller and his partner are escorting every single one of you off my driveway. Anyone remaining will be arrested for criminal trespass."
"Claire! Stop this right now!" Mark lunged forward toward my wheelchair, his fists clenched, his face contorted in pure, uncontrolled rage. "You ungrateful, spiteful bitch! After everything I gave you—"
*Clack.*
Deputy Miller’s partner stepped between Mark and my wheelchair in a flash, his hand dropping firmly to the grip of his taser. "Back up, sir! Hands out of your pockets! Now!"
Mark staggered backward, his chest heaving, trapped between the law, his terrified daughter, and his horrified ex-wife.
"Mark?" Cynthia hissed, grabbing his arm and shaking him violently. "Did you lie to me? You told me you sold your logistics company! You told me you were worth millions! You invited me here to invest in your development firm!"
"Cynthia, shut up!" Mark snapped, shaking her off.
"No, Cynthia, let me enlighten you," I said, leaning forward in my chair. "Mark never owned Hastings Logistics. My father did. Mark was an operations manager making seventy thousand a year until I married him. He didn't buy the cars. He didn't buy this house. He didn't even pay for that tailored blazer he’s wearing right now. Every single penny he spent over the last eight years came out of my family’s trust. And as of noon today, every single line of credit attached to my name has been canceled."
Cynthia looked at Mark as if he were a diseased rat. She pulled her silk scarf tight around her neck, stepped around him without a backward glance, and marched out the front door toward her rented Mercedes.
"Cynthia, wait!" Mark pleaded, reaching out for her.
She slammed the car door in his face and hit the ignition.
"Jenna Mercer," Deputy Miller said, stepping toward the trembling twenty-four-year-old girl who was currently clutching her mother’s abandoned champagne glass like a lifeline. "Step forward, please."
"Why?" Jenna sobbed, tears ruining her heavy mascara. "Dad, don't let them touch me! Dad!"
"Jenna Mercer, you are under arrest for aggravated assault and battery resulting in serious bodily injury," Deputy Miller said, turning her around and clicking the cold steel handcuffs around her wrists.
"No! Dad! Help me! It was an accident! She fell on purpose!" Jenna shrieked as she was led down the stone steps into the freezing winter air toward the back of the patrol cruiser.
Mark stood in the ruined foyer of the mansion, surrounded by half-packed boxes, Brenda’s crying children, and the remnants of a party that had turned into an execution. He fell to his knees in front of my wheelchair, tears finally streaming down his cheeks.
"Claire... please," he choked out, reaching for the hem of my trousers. "Please, baby. I made a mistake. I was stupid. Cynthia meant nothing to me, I swear! I was just trying to impress her for Jenna’s sake! Don't throw me out. I have nowhere to go. My bank account is zero. Please, Claire... we can fix this. I love you."
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I looked down at the man I had loved. The man I had cooked fourteen dishes for while my knee burned with agony. The man who had looked at me lying in broken glass and said, *“Don't make a scene.”*
"You told me not to make a scene, Mark," I whispered softly. "So I won't. Get your coat. Your twenty minutes are up."
