Chapter 8 - The Mask Slips
At the head of the forty-foot boardroom table sat two people.
To the right sat Arthur Sterling, reading a financial printout without even bothering to look up.
To the left, sitting directly in the executive power chair beneath the Sterling family crest, sat a woman in an emerald silk suit. Her posture was flawless, radiating an aura of untouchable authority. Her left cheek bore a faint, faint bruise barely masked by foundation, and her neck was wrapped in high silk.
Julian blinked, his brain refusing to process the image. "Claire...?"
Eleanor gasped, her face contorting into instant disgust before she could stop herself. "What is this? Julian, why is your insolent little wife here? Did she follow us to beg for money?"
Eleanor surged forward, pointing a gloved finger at me. "You disgraceful little tramp! How dare you show your face in a high-level banking negotiation! Get out of that chair before I have security throw you out into the street where you belong!"
Arthur Sterling slowly placed his glasses on the table. The air in the room plummeted below freezing.
"If you raise your voice to my daughter one more time in this building, Eleanor," Arthur said, his voice quiet, deep, and laced with venomous finality, "I will have you physically removed by armed guards and dumped into the East River."
Eleanor froze, the color draining from her face in an instant. "Your... your daughter?"
Julian’s knees literally buckled. He grabbed the back of a leather boardroom chair to keep from falling. "D-daughter? Claire... your father is an art teacher in upstate New York... you lived in a studio apartment when I met you..."
"I lived in that apartment because I wanted to know what real life felt like away from my family’s wealth," I said, leaning back and resting my elbows on the armrests. My voice was calm, cutting through their hysteria like a scalpel. "I wanted to know if a man could love me for who I was, without the Sterling name attached. And for three years, I played your meek little housewife, Julian."
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"Claire, baby..." Julian’s voice cracked, a horrifying mixture of greed and terror seizing his eyes. "You... you never told me. Why didn't you tell me? We could have worked together! We could have—"
"You let your mother beat me," I cut him off, my eyes locking onto his with absolute contempt. "You watched her pour boiling soup over my body last night, and your only concern was whether it splashed on your pants."
