Armed with Beatrice’s original letter and Maya’s fresh insights, I marched into Arthur’s opulent CEO office. The panoramic view of the city skyline, usually a symbol of his triumph, now felt like a gilded cage.
He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, reviewing financial reports, his expression impassive. He looked up, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“Eleanor. We need to discuss your… recent erratic behavior.” His voice was calm, controlled, a master of psychological warfare.
I slammed the yellowed envelope onto his desk. “Read this. Then tell me my behavior is erratic.”
He picked up the letter, his gaze falling on Beatrice’s familiar script. His face remained unreadable as he read, page after page, the story of Kincaid Global’s desperate infancy, his secret actions, and my mother’s heartbroken confession.
He finished, then slowly folded the pages. He set the letter down with deliberate care.
“My dear Beatrice,” he murmured, a hint of disdain in his voice. “Always so emotional. Always so naive.”
My jaw tightened. “Naive? She was a visionary! She wanted to build something ethical!”
“And her vision would have bankrupted us within a year,” Arthur countered, his voice sharp, devoid of remorse. “Her idealism was a liability. I saved this company, Eleanor. I saved her dream, even if she couldn’t see the necessity.”
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on mine. “And that network, the ‘underworld’ as you so dramatically put it, led by Silas Croft’s father before him, has done more than just save the company once. It has discreetly protected the Kincaid family’s personal assets and reputation for years. Decades, in fact.”
My breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”
“Every little problem,” he said, a chilling smile playing on his lips. “Every potential scandal, every threat to our name, to our wealth, to our very security… it was handled. Don’t you think your comfortable life, your son’s top-tier education, your own protected career, just happened by accident? You have always been a beneficiary, Eleanor. Unknowingly, perhaps. But a beneficiary nonetheless.”
He leaned back, his gaze cold, triumphant. “So, before you cast stones, remember whose glass house you’re standing in.” He wasn’t just admitting it. He was twisting the knife, forcing me to acknowledge my own complicity. He gaslit me into seeing his “underworld” as a protection, making me feel like an ungrateful child.
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