Chapter 3: The Destruction of an Empire
Beatrice straightened her suit, her eyes flashing with a desperate, arrogant defiance. "You can't do anything to me. I am the matriarch of this family. I own half the estate! The police will never believe a gold-digging schoolteacher over a Sterling. I will have my lawyers bury her in defamation suits!"
"You own nothing," Alexander corrected her, pulling his smartphone from his tailored suit jacket.
Beatrice frowned, a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossing her face. "What are you talking about?"
"When father died, he didn't leave the estate to you. He left it to the holding company. My holding company," Alexander stated, his thumb rapidly typing out messages. "I allowed you to live there out of respect. I allowed you access to the trust accounts because I thought you were my mother. But you aren't a mother. You are a sociopath."
Alexander raised the phone to his ear. "Marcus. I need you at Mount Sinai, VIP wing, immediately. Bring the NYPD detectives we keep on retainer for corporate espionage. We have an aggravated assault and attempted murder case."
"Alexander, stop this right now!" Beatrice demanded, panic finally bleeding into her aristocratic voice.
He ignored her, dialing a second number. "David. Freeze all auxiliary accounts linked to Beatrice Sterling. Cancel all platinum credit lines, revoke her access to the private jet, and lock down the Connecticut estate. Have security pack a single suitcase of her personal clothes and leave it on the street. She is officially evicted."
Beatrice’s jaw dropped. The elegant beige suit suddenly looked like a pathetic costume on a woman who had just been entirely stripped of her armor.
"You can't do this!" she screamed, rushing toward him, her hands clawing desperately at his arm. "I am your mother! I gave you life! You are ruining me over a pregnant nobody!"
"Get your hands off me," Alexander roared, his voice shaking the hospital room. He stepped back, standing protectively in front of Clara’s bed. "You aren't going back to the country club, Beatrice. You aren't going to the gala next weekend. You are going to a concrete cell in Rikers Island. And with the lawyers I am about to unleash on you, you will never see the outside of a prison wall again."
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the hospital room burst open. Three NYPD detectives and Alexander’s massive head of corporate security stepped into the room.
Beatrice shrank back against the window, her lips trembling. The absolute, unshakeable delusion that her wealth made her untouchable evaporated into thin air. The officers didn't care about her Chanel suit or her pearls. They read her her Miranda rights, pulled her hands behind her back, and clicked heavy steel handcuffs over her wrists.
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"Alexander, please!" Beatrice sobbed as she was dragged toward the door, her pristine image completely ruined, weeping like a pathetic child. "Please, don't let them take me!"
Alexander didn't even look at her. He had already turned his back, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, gently holding Clara’s trembling hand. He didn't speak another word to his mother as the heavy door clicked shut, sealing her fate forever.
