Chapter 6 - The Reckoning in the Foyer
The front heavy oak door swung open with a soft click. Miss Higgins didn't bother knocking; she had the arrogant confidence of someone who believed she held all the cards. She stepped into the grand foyer, draped in a designer trench coat, her blond hair styled into an immaculate blowout that clashed violently with the sleazy nature of her mission.
"Well, Kevin," she purred, closing the door behind her and slipping off her leather gloves. "I must say, I'm surprised you invited me back into this mausoleum. I thought you'd want to sweep me under the rug as fast as possible."
I stood at the base of the grand staircase, my hands shoved casually into the pockets of my trousers. I let my face remain a mask of cold corporate indifference—the same expression I wore when crushing a hostile takeover bid.
"Cut the act, Clara," I said, using her first name for the first time. "You sent the email. You demanded fifty thousand dollars for your silence regarding 'internal household management issues.' You thought you could bleed me dry."
Clara Higgins laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that echoed off the marble pillars of the foyer. "Blackmail is such an ugly word, Kevin. Let's call it a severance adjustment. After all, working in this house with those screaming, unmanageable brats of yours nearly drove me to a nervous breakdown. Fifty grand is chump change for a man whose company is valued in the billions."
"You drugged them," I said softly, taking a slow step toward her.
Clara froze for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting nervously, before she quickly recovered her composure with a cynical smirk. "Prove it. You think a court is going to believe a grieving billionaire over a certified child-care professional with glowing references? The police won't even take your call. You'll settle quietly, or your company's stock takes a hit when the press finds out how neglected those poor boys really are."
"You left a digital voice recorder behind the baseboards in the playroom, Clara," I replied, my voice dangerously smooth. "Complete with your voice instructing the automated loop to terrify my five-year-old sons every night at midnight."
For the first time, color drained from Clara's face. She stumbled back half a step, her hand flying to her throat. "That's... that's a lie. You have no proof—"
"I have the device," I interrupted, pulling the black recorder from my pocket and holding it up under the crystal chandelier light. "I have the digital forensics report linking the audio file to your personal laptop. And more importantly... I have the wire transfer logs showing the fifty thousand dollars you just tried to extort from me, which was routed directly through a federal cyber-crime tracking account."
Clara stared at the device in my hand, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. The mask of professional detachment completely shattered, revealing the desperate, cornered criminal underneath.
"You set me up," she choked out, her voice rising in panic. "You son of a bitch—"
"Mr. Morrison?"
A quiet voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
I looked up. Standing on the landing, illuminated by the warm wall sconces, were Jordan and Justin. They weren't crying. They weren't trembling. They stood hand in hand, looking down into the foyer.
May you like
And then, Justin pointed a small, steady finger directly at Clara Higgins.
"That's the bad lady," Justin said, his clear, bell-like voice cutting straight through the tense air of the foyer. "She told us mommy didn't love us."
