Chapter 8 - Turning the Tables
The following morning broke gray and cold, but for the first time in a decade, the air in my lungs tasted clean.
I didn't stay at a hotel. I stayed in the guest suite of my grandfather’s former estate in Chehalis—a property the Sterlings had tried to sell off five times, only to be blocked by Arthur Vance's quiet, persistent legal injunctions. The house was rustic, built of cedar and stone, overlooking the endless canopy of emerald firs that stretched toward the foothills of the Cascades.
My mountain. My heritage.
Arthur sat across from me at the heavy pine breakfast table, steam rising from two mugs of black coffee. Spread out between us were the morning papers.
The *Seattle Times* carried a front-page headline that sent shockwaves through the Pacific Northwest social register:
**STERLING EMPIRE CRUMBLES: FEDERAL RAIDS EXPOSE DECADE-LONG TRUST FRAUD; MERCER ISLAND DYNASTY IN RUINS.**
"The U.S. Attorney moved faster than I anticipated," Arthur remarked, tapping his pen against the legal pad. "Reid’s bail was set at five million dollars, cash only. Beverly’s passport has been surrendered. Victoria Davenport’s father issued a public statement this morning completely disassociating his development firm from Sterling Holdings, claiming they were 'victims of misrepresentation.'"
I took a slow sip of the coffee. It was hot, bitter, and grounding. "And the land?"
"The emergency injunction was granted at eight o'clock this morning," Arthur smiled, his eyes creasing with deep satisfaction. "Every environmental easement has been permanently reinstated and placed into an irrevocable biological trust under your sole trusteeship. No one will ever log those ancient groves, Mara. Your grandfather’s dream is safe."
I looked out the panoramic window. The mist was rising from the valley, curling around the tops of thousand-year-old trees like smoke from a sacred fire. Ten years of suffering, ten years of gaslighting, ten years of being told I was worthless—all of it had been an attempt to steal this peace.
"There is, however," Arthur added, his tone shifting slightly, becoming hesitant, "one remaining matter."
I set my mug down. "What is it?"
"The anniversary gala," he said.
I had almost forgotten. Tonight was supposed to be Beverly Sterling’s crowning achievement: the Fiftieth Annual Autumn Heritage Gala at the Rainier Club in downtown Seattle. It was the event where Reid was scheduled to announce his takeover of the Davenport industrial project, cementing his status as the new titan of regional real estate. Beverly had spent four hundred thousand dollars of my money booking the ballroom, flying in chefs from France, and inviting seven hundred of the city’s most influential elites.
"Cancel it," I said instinctively.
"We could," Arthur replied thoughtfully. "Or... we could let the contract stand. After all, Mara, the bill has already been paid from your account. The venue is non-refundable. The guests are already arriving in town."
I looked at Arthur. A slow, cold smile spread across my lips.
"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Arthur?"
May you like
"I am simply suggesting," the old lawyer said with a twinkle in his eye, "that you have spent ten years being the punchline to their jokes. Perhaps it is time you delivered the closing remarks."
***
