Chapter 5 - The Confrontation in the Conservatory
Downstairs in the glass-domed conservatory, surrounded by exotic orchids and winter-blooming jasmine, Jocelyn Cole sat in a wicker armchair, sipping Earl Grey tea from a bone-china cup. She wore an emerald silk bathrobe, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the early hour.
The heavy glass door slid open.
Jocelyn didn't even turn her head, assuming it was a servant bringing her morning pastry. "Take the tea away, and tell the car to be ready by ten. I have no intention of spending another hour in this drafty barn."
"You're not going anywhere, Mother."
Jocelyn froze. The teacup rattled against the saucer as she set it down on the glass table and turned around.
Ethan stood at the entrance of the conservatory. He wasn't wearing his usual corporate armor. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his posture loose, but his eyes were burning with a cold, predatory rage that made Jocelyn’s breath catch in her throat.
"Ethan," Jocelyn forced a tight, brittle smile. "Good morning, darling. Merry Christmas. You look dreadful. Did you even sleep?"
"Five years ago," Ethan began, walking slowly toward her, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor, "a young woman named Hannah Brooks walked out of my life. She left a note. A note that supposedly proved she wanted nothing to do with me."
Jocelyn’s face didn't twitch, though her fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her teacup. "Ah. The little gold-digger. I told you back then, Ethan—people like her only want one thing from a Mercer."
"She didn't want a dime," Ethan said, stopping three feet away from her chair. He pulled the folded photograph from his pocket and tossed it onto the glass table right beside her teacup. "She wanted to protect me. Because you visited her apartment behind my back. Because you threatened to destroy my career, my funding, and my future if she didn't vanish."
Silence hung in the humid air of the conservatory.
Jocelyn stared at the photograph. Slowly, the brittle smile vanished from her face, replaced by a mask of cold, unrepentant arrogance. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her silk-clad legs.
"And what if I did?" Jocelyn asked smoothly, her voice devoid of remorse. "Look at you, Ethan. Look at this empire. You're worth four billion dollars. You sit on three federal advisory boards. You own half of Manhattan. If you had burdened yourself with a frightened, uneducated girl from a broken home with a dying, impoverished mother, you would still be sketching wooden dollhouses in a studio apartment in Queens."
Ethan felt a dark, violent surge of adrenaline rise in his chest. For a terrifying second, he wanted to shatter the glass table beneath her hands.
"She carried my child, Mother," Ethan whispered, his voice trembling with rage. "She raised my daughter alone in poverty while you sat at my dinner table every Sunday and asked me why I couldn't find a respectable wife."
"She was a liability," Jocelyn snapped back, her eyes flashing with equal venom. "And I solved the problem. You should be thanking me."
"Your time running this family is over," Ethan said, his voice dropping into an absolute, chilling register. "By noon today, your name will be stripped from every trust, every foundation, and every corporate board associated with Mercer Holdings. Your allowance is canceled. Your penthouse on Park Avenue is being transferred to the company. You are going to pack your bags, Jocelyn, and you are going to leave this house."
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Jocelyn stood up, her face turning pale with absolute fury. "You can't do that! I am your mother! I built the social connections that allowed your father to—"
"My father died because he let you control him," Ethan interrupted, turning his back on her. "I am breaking the cycle today. Get out."
