Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Pen
By Saturday morning, Celia Sinclair launched her retaliatory strike.
I was making pancakes for Tilly and Owen when my phone buzzed incessantly. It was Sarah.
“Mara, don’t look at the internet,” Sarah said, her voice shaking with outrage. “Or rather... you have to look, but please don’t let it break you.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the local Edinburgh news feed. Splashed across the front page of a prominent Scottish tabloid was a headline in bold, screaming type:
**AMERICAN WIDOW ACCUSED OF FINANCIAL COERCION IN HISTORIC RESTORATION DYNASTY**
Beneath the headline was a photograph of me looking exhausted outside the hospital on the night Ewan died, paired with a glamorous, tearful portrait of Celia in black lace.
The article quoted “unnamed family sources” claiming that I had isolated Ewan from his mother during his final illness, forced him to alter his will while heavily medicated, and was now attempting to liquidate a century-old Scottish heritage company to fund a lavish lifestyle back in the United States. Worse still, the article ended with a vile, insidious insinuation: questioning whether Ewan was even the biological father of the twins, citing my “frequent solitary trips to America” during our marriage.
The kitchen went dead silent. The anger that flared in my chest was so white-hot it felt like ice.
“Mummy?” Tilly asked, holding up a blueberry. “Why are you holding the counter so hard?”
I forced a smile, kneeling beside her chair, kissing her forehead. “Just stretching my hands, sweet pea. Eat your breakfast, okay? Today we’re going to the park.”
I walked into the hallway and dialed Fiona immediately.
“I’ve already seen it,” Fiona said before I could say a word. “Celia’s PR firm fed this to the press at five this morning. It’s a classic smear campaign designed to bias the court ahead of Monday’s probate hearing.”
“She called my children illegitimate, Fiona,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “She went to the national press to tell the world my babies aren’t Ewan’s.”
“It’s a deliberate provocation, Mara. She wants you to lash out, to make an emotional public statement that makes you look unstable. The Court of Session hates public brawling.”
“I’m not going to lash out,” I said, looking through the glass door at Owen, who was carefully stacking blocks to make a castle for his sister. “I’m going to destroy her legally.”
“Then we have good news,” Fiona replied. “I spent the night reviewing the digital files on the drive you recovered from Vault Four. Ewan didn't just keep financial records. He kept audio recordings of his board meetings, signed confessions from the foreign bank managers Julian used, and—most importantly—a certified DNA profile for both twins conducted at the Western General Hospital when they were born, specifically registered with the Lord Lyon King of Arms to protect their ancestral title.”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Ewan knew she would do this.”
“He knew his mother better than anyone,” Fiona said. “Celia called an extraordinary general meeting of the Sinclair Heritage board for tomorrow afternoon at the Balmoral Hotel. She intends to vote herself executive chair and file for custody management of the children’s trust shares.”
“Can we stop the meeting?”
“No,” Fiona said, a grim satisfaction lacing her voice. “We don’t want to stop it, Mara. We want her to hold it. Because under Scottish corporate law, an extraordinary meeting requires all voting shareholders to be present.”
“And between the children and me...”
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“You hold eighty-two percent of the company,” Fiona finished. “Celia thinks she’s calling a coronation. She has no idea she’s walking into her own tribunal.”
***
