Chapter 5 - The Family Strike Back
The fragile peace in Thatcher’s penthouse lasted exactly four days.
On Saturday afternoon, the security intercom buzzed. The front desk guard announced that two unexpected visitors were in the lobby, demanding entry: my mother, Beatrice, and my uncle Arthur.
“Do you want me to have building security throw them out?” Thatcher asked, looking up from his laptop where he was reviewing legal briefs with his paralegal over Zoom.
“No,” I said, straightening the blanket over my immobilized leg in the wheelchair. “Let them up. It’s time I faced them on my own turf.”
Ten minutes later, the double doors of the penthouse elevator chimed.
My mother stormed into the foyer, looking like a storm cloud wrapped in Chanel wool. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup hastily applied, and her eyes blazing with frantic fury. Uncle Arthur trailed closely behind her, carrying a leather briefcase and wearing his usual intimidating corporate scowl.
“Elena! Have you lost your absolute mind?!” Beatrice shrieked the moment she saw me sitting by the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Freezing our corporate accounts?! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Your uncle has payroll to meet on Monday, and the bank is refusing to release funds because of your ridiculous malicious lawsuit!”
“Hello, Mother. Hello, Uncle Arthur,” I said, my voice dead calm, cutting through her hysterics like a scalpel. “Please, sit down. Oh wait—there aren't enough chairs for everyone who helped steal my intellectual property.”
Uncle Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about, Elena? Are you having a psychotic break? Your mother said you hit your head when you fell.”
“I hit my head, but my memory is remarkably clear,” I replied, gesturing to the manila folder resting on the coffee table. “In fact, my memory is so clear that I remember designing the entire West Loop historic district revitalization project three years ago—the project that netted Whitaker & Sons a two-million-dollar municipal grant. Strange how Sloan’s name was on the patent filing instead of mine.”
Beatrice’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. She staggered backward, grabbing onto the back of a velvet armchair for support. “Where... where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” Thatcher stepped out from the study, his tall frame instantly dominating the room. He didn't raise his voice, but the cold authority in his posture made Uncle Arthur visibly recoil. “Mr. Whitaker, I suggest you advise your sister to stop making threats. My firm represents Elena now. Any further attempts to intimidate her will be met with immediate criminal referral for grand larceny and wire fraud.”
“Thatcher, you cannot be serious!” Beatrice cried out, pivoting her dramatic performance toward him, dabbing at her dry eyes with a tissue. “You were supposed to marry my daughter! How can you stand there protecting this ungrateful, crippled girl over your own fiancée?!”
“My fiancée tried to cripple her permanently,” Thatcher said, his voice dropping an octave into pure ice. “And as for marrying Sloan? I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole dipped in disinfectant. The engagement is terminated, the ring has been pawned to pay for Elena’s medical deductible, and your family is officially bankrupt.”
Uncle Arthur’s face flushed a dangerous shade of crimson. He slammed his briefcase down onto the coffee table. “You think you can destroy us over a family spat?! We built this city’s real estate market! We will crush you in court, Elena! You’ll be begging us for scraps by the end of the month!”
“No, Uncle Arthur,” I said, wheeling myself forward until I was face-to-face with him. For the first time in my life, I didn't look up at him with fear. I looked down at him with absolute, unwavering power. “You won't crush me. Because as of nine o'clock this morning, my legal team filed an involuntary bankruptcy petition against Whitaker & Sons on behalf of my freelance drafting firm, which you haven't paid royalties to in thirty-six months.”
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Arthur stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The reality of the checkmate finally sinking in.
“Get out of my apartment,” I said softly, pointing toward the double doors. “And don't ever come back.”
