Chapter 6 - The Country Club Showdown
By 1:00 PM, the financial freeze had executed like a guillotine.
I spent the morning with Grace, watching her eat a real, nutritious breakfast—scrambled eggs, fresh berries, and warm toast—while a high-end stylist I had hired arrived at the suite.
The stylist was a gentle woman named Clara, who treated Grace like royalty. She washed Grace’s short hair, treated her scalp with organic oils, and brought a collection of cashmere sweaters, silk slacks, and elegant coats that fit Grace’s diminished frame perfectly.
When Grace looked at herself in the full-length mirror, wearing an ivory cashmere turtleneck and tailored trousers, tears filled her eyes again. But this time, they weren't tears of grief. They were tears of a woman remembering who she was.
"You look beautiful, baby," I said, stepping behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder.
"I don't feel like a servant anymore," Grace whispered, touching the soft cashmere of her sleeve.
"You were never a servant," I said fiercely. "You are the mistress of the Bennett estate. And today, we’re going to collect what’s ours."
Our first stop wasn't the police station. It was the Lakeside Country Club.
Eleanor had scheduled her annual "Spring Charity Committee Luncheon" at the club that afternoon—an event she had been bragging about for months, using my stolen money to host thirty of Chicago’s most prominent high-society women.
The sky was bright blue as my black armored Escalade pulled up to the grand stone portico of the Lakeside Country Club.
Marcus opened the door for us. I stepped out first, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, then reached back to help Grace out. She held my hand tightly, her shoulders back, her head held high.
We walked through the opulent glass doors of the club, flanked by Marcus and two security guards.
The grand dining room was filled with women in designer dresses, drinking champagne and eating lobster salad. At the head table sat my mother, Eleanor, holding court, wearing her massive diamond necklace, holding a glass of Moët.
Beside her sat Vanessa, laughing with a group of wealthy socialites, showing off a diamond bracelet on her wrist.
The moment my boots clicked against the hardwood floor of the dining room, the ambient chatter began to quiet down.
Eleanor looked up. When she saw me standing there—and saw Grace standing beside me, dressed in stunning cashmere, looking healthy and regal—her champagne glass froze halfway to her lips.
"Daniel?" Eleanor stammered, her voice echoing in the sudden silence of the room. "What... what are you doing here? This is a private committee meeting!"
I didn't answer. I walked straight up to the head table, the room growing completely dead silent as thirty wealthy women stared at us.
"Ladies," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the grand hall. "I apologize for the interruption. But I need to inform the treasurer of this committee that Eleanor Bennett’s credit cards will no longer be accepted today."
Eleanor’s face flushed a deep, ugly purple. "Daniel! How dare you humiliate me in front of my friends!"
Vanessa stood up, her eyes wide with panic. "Daniel, stop this!"
Right on cue, the restaurant manager hurried over, looking extremely stressed, holding a digital payment terminal.
"Mrs. Bennett," the manager said nervously. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but... the card you provided for the deposit on this luncheon was just declined. And when we tried the backup corporate account, it came back as frozen by order of the State Supreme Court."
A collective gasp rippled through the thirty women seated at the tables.
May you like
Eleanor gasped, her hands trembling as she grabbed her designer purse. "That’s impossible! There’s plenty of money in that account!"
"There was money in that account, Eleanor," I said loudly, stepping closer so everyone could hear every word. "When it was my money. The money you stole from my wife while I was deployed overseas."
