Chapter 7 - The Exodus
Carter Sterling slowly took his hands out of his pockets and looked at Brandon with cold, unvarnished contempt.
“You told me your family owned this estate outright, Brandon,” Sterling said, his tone devoid of any warmth. “You told me you were managing a multi-million-dollar family trust. But from what I can hear, you’ve been living off your widowed mother’s retirement and claiming her foundation as your personal empire.”
“Carter, listen to me, that’s not true! I built the consulting firm! I brought in the clients!” Brandon pleaded, taking a desperate step forward.
“You brought in clients by using this address as proof of your personal wealth,” Sterling interrupted, his gaze piercing Brandon like an iron spike. “I don’t do business with men who build their careers on illusions, and I certainly don't hire men who treat their mothers like domestic staff. If you treat the woman who gave you life this way, I shudder to think what you’d do to my firm’s clients.”
Sterling turned to his wife and held out his arm. “Come along, Helen. It’s Christmas evening. We can find a decent steak at the club.”
“Carter, wait!” Vanessa shrieked, hurrying down the hallway after them. “It’s a misunderstanding! We have the money! Brandon has investments! Don't leave!”
The other guests didn't say a word. One by one, avoiding Brandon’s eyes, they turned on their heels, pulled their coats tightly around their necks, and filed out the front door.
Within ninety seconds, the sound of car doors slamming and engines turning over echoed through the open foyer. Headlights swept across the bare, barren walls as the luxury convoy reversed down the driveway, leaving Brandon and Vanessa standing in the freezing, cavernous gloom of the empty house.
Vanessa turned around, her face twisted in pure, unadulterated venom.
“You pathetic loser!” she screamed, lunging at Brandon and shoving him hard against the bare hallway wall. “You told me you owned this house! You told me your mother was just a dependent living on your generosity!”
“Shut up, Vanessa!” Brandon barked, his face dark with rage as he shoved her hand away. “I do own it! I’m Richard Vance’s only son! I’m his legal heir! This is just some cheap stunt the old bat is pulling with Arthur Hayes! She can’t throw me out of my own father’s house!”
“Then where is the money, Brandon?” Vanessa screamed, her voice cracking in hysteria. “Where is my Christmas dinner? Where is the deposit for the country club? You lied to me! You dragged me out here to live in the middle of nowhere on promises of millions, and we’re sitting in an empty house on lawn chairs with fifty dollars in your checking account!”
In a blind, unhinged fury, Brandon grabbed a modern ceramic vase—the only piece of décor Vanessa had left sitting on the foyer pedestal—and hurled it across the room. It struck the stone fireplace and shattered into a hundred jagged pieces.
“I’ll kill her!” Brandon screamed at the top of his lungs, kicking the shards across the floor. “I will drag her back here by her hair and make her sign over every single account! I am Richard Vance’s son! I am the master of this house!”
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Out on the street, Mrs. Higgins, our seventy-two-year-old neighbor who had lived next door to Richard and me for thirty-five years, saw the shouting through the uncovered windows and heard the crash of the shattering vase.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she picked up her landline and dialed 911.
