Chapter 5 - The Kitchen Table Summit
By eight o’clock that evening, the sun had dipped below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the back lawn. The house was dead silent—not the peaceful quiet of a home at rest, but the tense, vibrating stillness of a pressure cooker nearing its structural limit.
Harrison walked down the stairs, his boots clicking sharply against the hardwood. In the kitchen, the lights were blazing.
All four of them were sitting around the granite island.
His mother, Eleanor, was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. His father, Thomas, sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a mask of bitter, unyielding stubbornness. Preston was pacing near the pantry, nursing a glass of scotch that was three parts amber liquid and one part melted ice, while Vanessa sat on a barstool with her arms locked tight across her ribcage, staring daggers at the refrigerator door as if she could burn the Basic Kids Snacks label off with sheer malice.
"You’re making a monumental mistake, Harrison," Thomas said, his voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage as his eldest son entered the room. "We gave you life. We raised you. We fed you when you couldn't afford groceries during your first year out of college."
Harrison stopped beside the kitchen island, leaning his weight casually against the smooth granite. "You gave me a roof until I was eighteen, Dad. That’s a legal obligation, not a lifetime annuity. And as for groceries during my first year out of college? I worked three jobs while you were vacationing in Myrtle Beach for six weeks."
"That’s different!" Eleanor sobbed softly, her handkerchief coming up to her nose. "We deserved that trip! We worked hard our whole lives! And now, in our golden years, we have to watch our own son throw us out into the street like stray dogs because of some petty argument about a swimming pool?!"
"It wasn't about the pool, Mom," Harrison said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet that everyone in the room had to strain to hear it. "The pool was just where the mask finally slipped."
Preston slammed his glass down onto the granite countertop so hard that amber liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the white stone. "You’re acting like a paranoid sociopath, Harry! You’re selling a multi-million-dollar house because I took a couple of photos in your little leather shed?! It’s marketing! I was trying to drum up interest for your business!"
"By telling investors you own my company?" Harrison asked.
Preston blinked. The color instantly drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, pasty gray. "What... what are you talking about?"
Harrison pulled three folded sheets of paper from his back pocket and dropped them onto the island, sliding them across the smooth stone until they stopped right in front of Preston’s trembling fingers.
"Marcus Vance from Apex Global Holdings called me twenty minutes ago," Harrison said smoothly. "Turns out my brother—my sweet, struggling, innocent brother—has been using my client ledger, my corporate tax ID, and photos of my custom inventory to pitch a fraudulent investment fund to three of my biggest commercial accounts in Charlotte."
Vanessa gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Preston... what is he talking about?"
"It’s—it’s a misunderstanding!" Preston stammered, backing away from the island as if the papers were covered in poison ivy. "I was just exploring strategic partnerships! We were trying to scale the brand! You’re too small-minded, Harry! You just make bags in a shed while I’m trying to build an empire!"
"You were trying to steal my company," Harrison corrected, his voice as cold as liquid nitrogen. "And worse than that—you were stupid enough to leave a complete digital paper trail while doing it."
Thomas slowly stood up from his chair, his lower jaw trembling. He looked from Preston to Harrison, his eyes searching his oldest son's face for any sign of mercy, any hint of the boy he used to lecture about family loyalty. He found nothing. Just stone.
"Is this true, Preston?" Thomas whispered, the fight completely draining out of his voice. "Did you... did you steal from your brother?"
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Preston didn't answer. He just stared at the floor, his chest heaving as the reality of what he had done finally came crashing down around him.
"You have until midnight tomorrow to remove your vehicles from the driveway," Harrison said, turning his back on them and walking toward the hallway stairs. "After that, I’m calling the towing company. And if any of you step foot on this property after August eleventh, I won't call Diana. I’ll call the county sheriff."
