Chapter 4 - The Collapse of the House of Cards"You can't do that!" Helen shrieked, sprinting across the ballroom like a madwoman, her heavy silk dress rustling frantically. She reached Grandma Rose and tried to grab the envelope, but Aunt Diane and Aunt Melissa stepped in unison, blocking Helen’s path with cold, unyielding stares.
"Back off, Helen," Aunt Diane warned, her voice like grinding stones. "You've stolen enough from that girl over the years."
"That money belongs to Brooke! She is the face of this family!" Helen sobbed, grabbing Brooke by the shoulders and shaking her as if trying to wake her from a nightmare. "Brooke, do something! Tell them you're the sole heir! Tell them Grandma is senile!"
"I am not senile, Helen," Grandma Rose snapped, her cane striking the floor with a sharp crack. "My mind is sharper than yours ever was. And I saw every single time you forged my signature on those bank withdrawals meant for Claire’s college fund."
The color drained entirely from Helen’s face. She staggered backward, colliding with a tier of wedding gifts and sending a stack of silver-framed photo albums crashing to the floor.
"You... you knew?" Helen whispered.
"I’ve known since the day it happened," Grandma said coldly. "I kept quiet only because I wanted to see if Brooke had any decency left in her soul. I gave her one final test tonight. Put Claire at the table of honor, show her basic human respect, and prove she has a good heart."
Grandma looked at Brooke, who was now kneeling on the polished floorboards, her ivory dress stained with spilled champagne from Ethan’s broken glass.
"You failed, Brooke," Grandma whispered. "Spectacularly."
The guests were now whispering furiously among themselves. Several of Brooke’s high-society friends were already grabbing their designer coats from the coat check, eager to distance themselves from the sinking ship. Word travels fast in elite circles, and being associated with public disgrace was social death.
Ethan walked over to me, stopping a foot away. His expression was no longer cold; it was gentle, almost hesitant.
"Claire," he said softly.
I looked up at him, still processing the surreal whirlwind of the last ten minutes. "Ethan. I... I don't even know what to say."
"Don't say anything," he replied, offering me a small, rueful smile. "Just tell me you'll let me buy you a drink at the hotel bar across the street. I think we both need a stiff one after this circus."
I couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up in my throat. "Only if I get to pick the place. No fancy country clubs."
"Deal," Ethan said.
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Before we could take another step toward the exit, the heavy oak doors behind us flew open, crashing against the interior walls. A tall, impeccably dressed man in a charcoal bespoke suit stepped into the ballroom, flanked by two burly security guards in dark uniforms.
It was Mr. Sterling, senior partner at Sterling & Vance Law Firm—and Ethan’s personal attorney.
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