Chapter 5 - The Ultimatum
The boardroom emptied quickly. The other trustees offered brief, awkward apologies as they hurried out the door, eager to escape the radioactive fallout between mother and son. Arthur Pendelton left without saying another word, clutching his leather binder like a defeated general.
When the heavy doors closed, only Beauregard and I remained in the vast room overlooking the rainy skyline of New Orleans.
Beauregard sat slumped in his chair, staring at the frozen video frame on the wall screen. The light from the monitor reflected off his pale, sweating forehead.
"You knew," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You had the video the entire time."
"Rosalind sent it to me at midnight on Saturday," I said, sitting down across from him. "I didn't share it on social media because I wanted to see how far your wife would go. I wanted to see if she had any thread of decency left, or if she would drag our family through the mud for a quick payout."
"She lied to me," Beauregard said, burying his face in his hands. "She swore on her mother’s memory that she lost her balance. She told me the floor was slippery from a spilled wine glass... she swore to me, Mom."
"She lied to you because she knows you’re weak, Beauregard," I said, not with anger, but with a cold, devastating truth. "She knows that ever since your father died, you’ve been desperate to prove you’re your own man. She exploited your insecurities to turn you against me."
Beauregard pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were red and wet with tears. "What am I supposed to do, Mom? I married her! We have a home together! We have shared bank accounts, loans—"
"You have a decision to make," I interrupted, placing a white business card on the mahogany table between us. "This is the personal cell number for Marcus Vance, your father’s younger brother and the managing partner of Vance, Sterling & Associates. He is one of the top family law attorneys in the state."
Beauregard looked at the card as if it were a venomous snake. "You want me to divorce her?"
"I want you to protect yourself," I said firmly. "Heather isn't just reckless; she’s dangerous. She tried to ruin my reputation, she tried to hijack this foundation, and she used your name to file a fraudulent lawsuit threat. If you stay with her, she will bleed you dry. When her catering company goes bankrupt—and it will go bankrupt now that Rosalind has dropped her—her creditors will come after your personal assets, your savings, and your income."
"She’s my wife..." Beauregard repeated, though his voice lacked any conviction now.
"Marriage is a covenant of loyalty and trust," I said, leaning closer to him. "She traded your family’s honor for a social media stunt. Now, listen to me very carefully, Beauregard. Your father’s will established a private family trust. Upon my death, or upon your thirty-sixth birthday next month, you are scheduled to receive full control of a four-million-dollar trust fund."
Beauregard’s eyes widened slightly. He knew the trust existed, but Andre had kept the exact figures and conditions strictly confidential until the maturity date.
"However," I continued, "as the primary trustee, your father granted me the absolute authority to invoke a moral clause. If I determine that a beneficiary is subject to legal coercion, financial exploitation, or active hostility toward the family estate, I have the power to lock that trust in a blind offshore annuity that you cannot touch until you are sixty-five years old."
Beauregard swallowed hard. "You... you would disinherit me?"
"I would protect your father's hard-earned money from being handed over to a woman who shoves lobster towers to make a point," I said, my voice unyielding. "If you stay married to Heather Fontenot, you will not receive a single cent from the Vance estate. You will live on your salary as an associate architect, you will pay off her business debts out of your own pocket, and you will do it without my help."
"Mom, that’s blackmail!" Beauregard yelled, standing up so fast his chair rolled back against the wall.
"No, Beauregard. That is accountability," I said, rising smoothly from my seat. "You are thirty-five years old. It is time for you to decide whether you are a Vance, or whether you are Heather’s lapdog. You have until Friday at five o'clock—the exact deadline Heather set for her fake lawsuit settlement. If you haven't filed for legal separation and revoked her access to your personal accounts by then, I will execute the trust lock paperwork with Marcus."
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I picked up my leather briefcase, walked past him toward the door, and paused with my hand on the brass handle.
"Choose carefully, son," I said without looking back. "Your father built that legacy with forty years of sweat and honor. I won't let a toxic narcissist tear it down in forty seconds."
