He had even insisted that the gala be held around it so their guests could admire the centerpiece.
I glanced at the fountain.
Then I looked back at him.
“Apologize.”
Garrett’s laughter died.
“You’re going to regret this.”
He reached for my arm.
I moved before he could close his fingers around it.
His hand caught nothing but air, and his forward momentum carried him a step too close to the fountain’s low stone rim.
I caught his wrist, turned my shoulder, and used his own movement against him.
He stumbled.
His shoes slipped on the polished marble.
With a tremendous splash, Garrett fell backward into the fountain.
Water exploded over the rim, soaking the lower half of his designer suit and sending several decorative flowers spinning across the floor.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then someone gasped.
A woman near the orchestra covered her mouth.
Garrett surfaced, sputtering, his hair plastered against his forehead.
I stood beside the fountain, breathing hard.
“I asked you to apologize,” I said.
His face became frighteningly still.
He hauled himself out of the water, dripping across the marble, and charged toward me.
This time, I was ready.
When he lunged, I stepped aside, caught his arm, and drove my weight low enough to break his balance.
He hit the floor on one knee and one hand.
His other knee struck the marble with an ugly crack.
A collective gasp swept through the ballroom.
I stepped back before he could grab me.
“Stay down,” I said.
Garrett stared up at me, his eyes burning with disbelief.
I reached for my wedding ring.
The diamond had been the centerpiece of a proposal staged on a yacht, with champagne, photographers, and a sunset carefully chosen to look spontaneous.
I had once believed that ring represented the beginning of a beautiful life.
Now it felt like a lock I had mistaken for jewelry.
I pulled it from my finger.
Then I threw it straight against his chest.
The ring struck his wet lapel and dropped between his knees.
“You kicked my mother,” I said.
“Now crawl out of my house.”
The words rang through the ballroom.
Garrett stared at me as though the floor had opened beneath his feet.
“Your house?” he repeated.
I did not answer.
Evelyn stepped forward, her face flushing crimson.
“This is our house!”
I looked at her.
“No, Evelyn.”
“It’s the Whitmore estate, and tonight, you’re standing in the wrong place to make threats.”
Her expression flickered.
It was brief, but I saw it.
So did the man standing beside the orchestra.
He was in his late sixties, wearing a dark suit with no visible tie, and he had spent the entire evening watching the ballroom with the detached attention of someone who had not come to enjoy the party.
When our eyes met, he gave me the slightest nod.
I recognized him.
Martin Shaw, the attorney who had handled my father’s estate.
He should not have been here.
Not unless something had gone terribly wrong.
Garrett pushed himself upright.
“You’re finished, Eleanor,” he hissed.
“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s the problem.”
He raised his hand, perhaps intending to grab me, perhaps intending to strike me.
My mother moved between us.
“Don’t you dare touch my daughter.”
Her voice was soft, but the words carried.
Garrett stopped.
For the first time that evening, he seemed genuinely uncertain.
My mother stood straight despite her injured wrist, her old navy dress hanging neatly around her ankles, her silver hair slightly disordered.
She looked nothing like the women Garrett’s family admired.
She wore no diamonds.
She had no chauffeur.
She did not own a mansion or a private jet.
But when she looked at him, I saw the same unshakable strength that had carried us through my father’s funeral, our eviction when I was seventeen, and the years when she worked until her feet swelled so I could finish college.
“Eleanor,” she said, taking my hand.
“We should leave.”
I nodded.
As we turned toward the doors, a man in a black tuxedo hurried down the staircase overlooking the ballroom.
It was the estate manager, Thomas Reed.
He had worked for the Whitmores for nearly twenty years, and I had rarely seen him lose his composure.
Now his face was pale.
“Mr.
Whitmore,” he called.
Garrett spun around.
“What now?”
Thomas looked at the guests, then at Martin Shaw, then at my mother.
Finally, he addressed me.
“Mrs.
Whitmore, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the documents have arrived.”
Garrett went still.
Evelyn’s mouth opened slightly.
“What documents?” she demanded.
Thomas swallowed.
“The documents concerning the ownership transfer.”
The ballroom seemed to lose every sound at once.
I felt my mother’s hand tighten around mine.
Garrett’s wet face turned toward me.
“You told me those papers were still being processed.”
I stared at him.
“I never told you anything about those papers.”
For the first time since I had known him, Garrett looked afraid.
And then Martin Shaw stepped forward, opened his leather briefcase, and spoke words that changed everything.
“I’m afraid the ownership transfer has already been completed.”
Chapter 2: The Documents Nobody Was Supposed to See 006
For several seconds, Garrett looked as if he had forgotten how to speak.
Water dripped from his sleeves onto the marble floor, forming a dark puddle around his shoes, while the guests who had laughed at his jokes only minutes earlier watched him with undisguised curiosity.
Evelyn recovered first.
“This is a private family matter,” she announced, turning toward the crowd with the brittle confidence of a woman accustomed to controlling every room she entered.
“I’m sure everyone understands that there has been a misunderstanding.”
Nobody moved.
Martin Shaw closed the ballroom doors behind him.
“I’m afraid it is no longer private,” he said.
“Not after what has happened tonight.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“Martin, you work for my family.”
“I represent the legal interests of the estate’s current owner.”
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