Chapter 2 - The Confrontation at Gate 14
Lorraine’s heels clicked against the linoleum with rhythmic, predatory precision as she marched straight toward us. The surrounding travelers instinctively parted, sensing the razor-thin tension radiating from her formidable frame.
"Grant," my mother said, her voice dropping into that smooth, glacial register she used when she was about to ruin a business competitor's life. "I received word your Seattle flight was delayed. I came down to escort you to the private lounge so you could handle your calls in peace. I certainly didn't expect you to be fraternizing with... old baggage."
She spat the last two words with absolute venom, her gaze flicking down to Tessa and the boys.
I stepped physically between my mother and Tessa, a defensive instinct roaring to life in my chest that I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager fighting my father’s tyranny. "Save it, Mother. The game is over."
Lorraine didn't blink. She merely adjusted the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. "I have no idea what hysterical fiction you've been listening to, Grant. You have an empire to run. Millions of dollars in capital are waiting on your signature in Seattle. Do not let a cheap ghost derail everything you’ve built."
"Cheap ghost?" I roared, causing several nearby passengers to turn and stare. I pulled the hospital birth record out of my jacket pocket and shoved it inches from her face. "These are my sons! Five years old! And you knew every single second of it!"
Lorraine stared at the paper. There was no gasping, no theatrical shock. Just a slight narrowing of her eyes and a cold, tight smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
"Ah," Lorraine said softly, almost pityingly. "The forged hospital documents. I told you, Grant, she only ever wanted our name and our money. When you wouldn't marry her fast enough, she engineered a fake pregnancy trap. Do you really think I would let an interloper ruin the Whitlock bloodline?"
"They aren't forged, Lorraine," a cold, smooth voice echoed from behind my mother.
We all whipped around. Stepping out from behind the terminal pillar was a man I recognized instantly: Marcus Vance, my mother’s personal legal counsel and chief fixer for the past thirty years. He held a thick leather briefcase and looked entirely too comfortable.
May you like
"Marcus," I snarled. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Marcus offered a thin, apologetic smile. "Doing my job, Grant. And I'm afraid your mother is right. Legally speaking, those boys have no father listed on their birth certificates filed in the state of Arizona. Your mother saw to that long before they drew their first breath."
