Chapter 2 - The Trap Is Sprung
Back inside Cedar Hill, the atmosphere was thick with champagne and premature triumph. My father, Robert Lawson, stood by the massive stone fireplace, a crystal glass of expensive scotch in his hand, laughing heartily as Chloe twirled around the living room in her socks, tossing colored sticky dots onto antique armchairs and imported Persian rugs.
"Can you believe it?" Chloe shrieked, flopping onto a velvet sofa. "Six point nine million! Dad, we can buy the Malibu beach house and the penthouse in Manhattan. And I am never, ever cooking my own meals again."
Eleanor, my mother, lounged in Grandpa’s favorite leather armchair—the very chair I had cleaned and conditioned every month to keep the old leather from cracking. She took a slow sip of her wine, looking around the room with an expression of supreme ownership.
"It’s about time," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "For years, your father and I had to listen to Samuel complain about how difficult life was, while Maya acted like a saint. Well, look where her self-righteous martyrdom got her. A single dollar bill and a swift kick out the front door."
"She chose her path," Robert scoffed, refilling his glass from a crystal decanter on the mahogany sideboard. "She thought if she played the dutiful nursemaid, the old man would hand her the keys to the kingdom. She forgot who the real bloodline is. Let her figure out how to pay for a motel room tonight in the pouring rain."
Neither of them heard the soft click of the front door unlocking.
Mr. Sterling stepped into the foyer first, his tall, imposing frame draped in a dark trench coat that shed water onto the hardwood floor. I followed right behind him, wrapped in my blue blanket, my face dry of tears and replaced by a cold, resolute calm that neither of my parents had ever seen on me before.
Chloe was the first to notice us. Her laughter died in her throat, her mouth hanging open as she pointed a manicured finger in our direction.
"What is she doing back in here?" Chloe snapped, jumping up from the sofa. "Get her out! Dad, she’s tracking mud all over the imported rugs!"
Robert turned around, his face flushing a deep, angry crimson. He slammed his scotch glass down onto the mantle, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim.
"Mr. Sterling," Robert said, his voice rising in aggressive annoyance. "What is the meaning of this? I thought I told you to remove her from the property. This house is mine and Eleanor’s now. We don't want beggars tracking filth through our foyer."
Mr. Sterling did not flinch. He reached into his leather briefcase with deliberate slowness, extracting a certified document stamped with the official seal of the state probate court. He looked around the room, taking in the moving boxes outside, the colored sticky dots littering the furniture, and the open bottles of champagne on the kitchen island.
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"Robert," Mr. Sterling said, his voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "You are entirely mistaken. Cedar Hill does not belong to you. In fact, as of twenty minutes ago, you, your wife, and your daughter have legally forfeited every single cent of the six point nine million dollar inheritance."
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the howling wind against the windows.
