The Stolen Seat at the Christmas Feast: How My Arrogant Son-in-Law Tried to Erase Me from My Own Dynasty and Unearthed the Ruthless Legacy That Brought Him to His Knees

Margaret stepped out onto the second-floor landing, looking down into the darkness of the grand foyer.

The only illumination came from the violent flashes of lightning cutting through the arched stained-glass windows above the entrance.

With every flash of white light, Julian’s silhouette appeared like a grotesque gargoyle in the center of the hall.

He was drenched in snow and grease.

His expensive coat was torn at the shoulder, his face smeared with soot, his hair plastered to his forehead.

In his right hand, he clutched a heavy steel crowbar; in his left, a red plastic container smelling powerfully of gasoline.

"Julian," Margaret called down, her voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings with the steady weight of an executioner's bell.

"Put the can down."

Julian whipped his head upward, his eyes wild and unhinged, reflecting the pale flashes of the winter storm.

"You think you won, Margaret?" Julian shrieked, splashing a heavy arc of gasoline across the Persian rug in the center of the hall.

"You think because you called your pet judges and your corrupt prosecutors that you get to keep this castle?"

"The lenders took Marcus three hours ago!"

"They took him out of his apartment in a van!"

"They are coming for me next!"

"And I am not going to let you sit up here in your velvet chairs drinking your vintage wine while I rot in a ditch!"

Claire stepped up beside Margaret, gripping the polished oak banister, her voice trembling but fierce.

"Julian, stop this! Lily and Owen are upstairs!"

"Do you want to murder your own children?"

Julian froze for a split second, the mention of the children causing a momentary shudder in his twitching jaw.

Then his expression curdled into a sneer of pure, irredeemable hatred.

"They aren't my children, Claire!" Julian roared, laughing hysterically.

"They never looked at me like a father!"

"They looked at me like I was a chauffeur living in Thomas Sterling’s guest room!"

"Every time I spoke, they looked at you!"

"Every time you spoke, you looked at her!"

"You erased me from the day I married you!"

"You erased yourself, Julian," Margaret said, beginning to descend the grand curved staircase one slow, deliberate step at a time.

"You were given a seat at the table of one of the greatest families in this country."

"You were given respect, wealth, an honorable name, and the unconditional love of my daughter."

"And you threw it all away because your pride could not bear the fact that a woman built the floor you were standing on."

Julian raised the crowbar, shaking with rage.

"Stay back, Margaret! I'll light this whole damn floor right now!"

"You won't light anything, Julian," Margaret said calmly, stepping off the bottom stair onto the marble floor, completely unfazed by the fumes of fuel.

Behind the heavy shadows of the library doorway, a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette moved silently into position.

It was Charles, the driver, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker, flanked by two private estate security officers who had circled through the kitchen garden.