Chapter 14 - Cornered Animals
Sloane stumbled backward, tripping over a pile of empty takeout containers before landing hard on a dusty living room rug. She scrambled away on her hands and knees until her back hit the base of a cold fireplace, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
"You—you can't be here," she stammered, her hands shaking violently as she pointed a trembling finger at me. "This is trespassing! I'll call the police! Evan! Evan, get down here!"
"Evan isn't coming, Sloane," I said, walking slowly into the center of the cramped, dismal room. My heels clicked rhythmically against the floorboards, sounding like a ticking clock of doom. "Evan cut a plea deal with federal prosecutors two days ago. He gave you up before the handcuffs even touched his wrists. Did you really think rats loyal to money would stay loyal to a sinking ship?"
Sloane buried her face in her hands, letting out a choked, hysterical sob. "What do you want? My money? My clothes? There's nothing left! You took everything! The towers, the cars, the social standing—you destroyed my entire life!"
"I didn't destroy your life, Sloane," I corrected her, my tone freezing the air in the room. "I simply exposed the rot that was already there. But you made one critical mistake."
I pulled the heavy silver key Martha Vance had given me out of my coat pocket, dangling it by its chain just inches from her terrified face.
Sloane’s eyes locked onto the silver metal. All color vanished from her face again. A suffocating gasp escaped her throat.
"The vault at First National," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind outside. "How did you... Martha. That old traitor."
"Martha gave me the key, yes," I said, stepping closer, looking down at the fallen queen of New York society with absolute pity. "And now, I have the master ledger. The documents proving that every single cent your grandfather stole from my family, every property you inherited, every square inch of the empire you lorded over me from—it all belongs to the Bennetts. Legally. Irrevocably."
"Please," Sloane choked out, crawling forward to grab the hem of my wool coat. Tears streamed down her hollow cheeks, smearing her makeup into dark streaks. "Please, Clara. Don't take the house. Don't ruin me completely. I'll do anything. I'll beg on my knees. I'll apologize publicly. Just... leave me something!"
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I looked down at her hands gripping my coat, the same hands that had held the glass of Coke three years ago. I slowly, deliberately pulled my coat free from her grasp.
"When you poured that drink over my head, Sloane, did you ever wonder what would happen if I stood back up?" I asked quietly. "You treated me like trash because you thought you were born better. But let me tell you a secret: gold doesn't lose its value just because someone throws mud on it. It just has to be washed."
