My Arrogant Cousin Tried to Evict Me and Steal Our War Fleet — I Froze His Accounts in Four Minutes, But the Legal War That Followed Cost Me My Son
The tempest hit Washington D.C. with a fury that seemed almost supernatural. Rain lashed sideways, driven by winds that howled like a banshee, tearing down branches and telegraph wires across every neighborhood. The streets, already slick with water, quickly transformed into rushing rivers.
Thomas ran, his lungs burning, through the darkened, flooded thoroughfares. Each step was a battle against the wind and water, the downpour obscuring his vision, making the familiar city a terrifying, chaotic maze. He gripped the sealed leather dispatch tube, the bloodstained receipt nestled safely inside, as if it were his very lifeline.
His destination was the War Department, and the most direct route lay over the Potomac railway bridge. He could hear the river now, a churning, roaring beast beneath the city, its waters rising with an alarming speed from the flash flood.
Across town, utterly oblivious to the chaos unfolding in the streets, Arthur sat smugly with Victoria Albright in the opulent, softly lit lobby of The Mayflower Hotel. They were celebrating, clinking crystal glasses of expensive champagne.
Arthur, dressed in a fresh suit, puffed on a Cuban cigar, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. “Tomorrow,” he declared, his voice slurred slightly with drink, “the receivership is final. Eleanor will be ruined. And Thomas will be behind bars where he belongs.”
Victoria, draped in a shimmering silk gown, raised her glass. “To our new empire, Arthur. And to the foolishness of sentiment.” She took a long sip, her eyes gleaming with avarice.
A bellboy, soaked to the bone, rushed past, whispering about power outages and collapsing lines, but Arthur merely waved him off impatiently. “Nonsense. Just a little summer storm.”
They laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged lobby, completely unaware that the very river beneath the city bridge, swollen by the torrential downpour, was about to play a hand in their carefully orchestrated victory.
Thomas, meanwhile, was nearing the Potomac. The bridge, usually a solid, comforting span, now looked like a ghost in the swirling darkness. Its wooden structure groaned and shuddered against the gale, the roar of the water beneath it growing louder with every desperate, straining stride he took. He pressed on, the precious evidence held tightly, his last hope to save his mother.
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