Chapter 7 - The Revelation at the Dinner
“Entitled?” I turned slowly to face Cassandra, my gaze locking onto hers with a ferocity that made her step back involuntarily. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my smartphone, walked over to Michael’s wall-mounted presentation screen, and plugged a lightning-to-HDMI adapter into my phone.
Before Michael could lunge across the desk to stop me, I tapped my screen.
The security footage from The Hawthorne Estate blazed across the fifty-inch high-definition monitor in terrifying, unforgiving detail.
The silent hallway.
Ellen holding out the gift box with a loving smile.
Cassandra viciously slapping the box to the floor.
Michael shoving his mother with brutal, unprovoked force.
Ellen slamming against the wood-paneled wall, collapsing in agony.
Cassandra sneering down at her and kicking her shoe away.
The footage played on an endless loop in the silent office.
Michael froze. He stared up at the screen, his mouth hanging open, color entirely draining from his cheeks. The reality of what he had done—stripped of alcohol, adrenaline, and wedding night euphoria—slammed into him like a freight train. He looked at the screen, then down at his own trembling hands, as if seeing weapons of mass destruction attached to his wrists.
“No…” Michael choked out, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of his desk. “No, that’s… that’s edited. That’s not what happened. We were just… we were arguing, she slipped—”
“Shut your lying mouth, Michael!” I roared, the pent-up fury of a week exploding in a single word that shook the glass walls of the office.
Michael flinched violently, cowering like a beaten dog.
Cassandra, realizing her empire of lies was crumbling in real-time, spun around to face Michael, her facade of aristocratic poise completely shattering.
“You pathetic loser!” Cassandra shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at her husband. “You didn't even tell me your parents had control over the property? You told me you were set! You told me we were rich! You’re a broke, pathetic fraud!”
“Cassandra, wait, let me explain—” Michael stammered, reaching out to grab her arm.
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“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, slapping his hand away with a resounding smack. “I want an annulment! I want a divorce! I am not going down with a criminal and a beggar!”
She grabbed her designer handbag off the sofa, glared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred, and stormed out of the office, slamming the glass door so hard the frame rattled in its tracks.
