Chapter 566:
“Propose?” Elias repeated the word as if it were a foreign language. “To whom?”
“To… to Miss Vance,” Tina said quickly. “Spencer Sullivan intends to ask for her hand. The narrative they are pushing is that they are ‘saving’ her from the stigma of her divorce because the Thorne family would never accept her.”
Crack.
The sound was sharp and violent.
Elias looked down. The Montblanc was snapped cleanly in two. Ink—black as oil—bled onto his fingers, dripping onto the pristine white documents on his desk.
He didn’t wipe it off. He stared at the ink spreading across his skin.
“Saving her,” Elias whispered. A terrifying, cold smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were dead.
“They think she is trash waiting to be recycled,” he said softly. “They think I am playing a game.”
He stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. He dropped the broken pen into the trash can.
“Tina.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call the security team at the Kensington Estate. Tell them to let the Sullivans in.”
Tina blinked. “Let them in? Sir, are you sure?”
“Let them in,” Elias commanded, wiping the ink from his hand with a handkerchief. “Let them say their piece. Let them dig their grave. And then…”
He walked to the window, looking out toward the direction of the Kensington estate.
“Then, execute Protocol ‘Landslide’. I want every contract, every loan, every supplier connected to the Sullivan family frozen within the hour. I want their stock to be a penny stock by lunch.”
𝖕𝗿𝗼𝘁𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗼: gⲁ․𝗅․𝗇․𝗈․ν․𝖊․𝗅․𝘀⸱𝗈𝗆
“Understood,” Tina said, tapping furiously on her tablet.
“And get the car,” Elias said, buttoning his jacket. “I want to see the look on Spencer’s face when he realizes he’s trying to steal fire from a dragon.”
The heavy iron gates of the Kensington Estate groaned open, admitting the Sullivan Rolls Royce. The car crunched over the gravel driveway, moving with a slowness that screamed entitlement.
Inside the main house, the living room was a sanctuary of calm. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
My grandmother, the Kensington Matriarch, sat on a high-backed floral sofa. She was sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. Seraphina sat beside her, looking elegant in a cream-colored cardigan, flipping through a magazine.
I sat in the window seat, a book on game theory resting on my knees. First, my dog, was snoozing at my feet, occasionally twitching his paws in a dream chase. I had only been back at the estate for an hour, but the familiarity of the walls was grounding after the whirlwind of the Gala.
The peace was shattered by the butler announcing, “Matriarch Sullivan and Mr. Spencer Sullivan.”
They didn’t wait to be invited. They swept into the room like they owned the deed. Matriarch Sullivan led the way, her purple suit rustling loudly. Spencer followed, carrying a few gift bags that looked suspiciously dusty.
.
.
.