Chapter 8 - The Flight of the Sycophants
Matthew, Brandon’s brother, stood up from the sofa so quickly that he knocked over his champagne flute.
The sparkling wine soaked into the expensive Persian rug, but nobody cared to look.
“Brandon, what the hell is this?” Matthew demanded, his voice cracking with sudden terror.
“You told me you bought this whole estate last spring!”
“You told me you owned the trucking company and were going to give me the regional vice presidency next month!”
Brandon turned on his brother, veins bulging in his neck like thick cords.
“Shut your mouth, Matthew! Don’t turn on me now!”
“Shut my mouth?” Matthew spat back, grabbing his coat from the nearby bench.
“I quit my job in Cincinnati because you promised me an executive package here!”
“You dragged my wife and me into this whole scam!”
Matthew’s wife was already grabbing her purse, her face burning with utter humiliation.
“We are leaving right now,” she hissed, pulling Matthew toward the front door.
“Don’t you ever call us again, Brandon!”
As the front doors slammed behind Matthew and his wife, Donna looked around the massive foyer like a trapped animal.
The illusion of her royalty had disintegrated into dust within less than ten minutes.
“Brandon... do something!” she wailed, clutching his arm with her red-painted nails.
“Tell them who you are! Call the governor! Call your country club friends!”
“He has no friends at the country club, Donna,” Arthur noted dryly.
“His country club membership was paid via the Vance-Sterling corporate expense account.”
“That account was frozen at eight-thirty this morning.”
“Along with the lease on his Mercedes-Benz, which is currently parked in the driveway.”
Brandon lunged forward toward me, his face twisted in pure animal rage.
“You miserable old bitch! I will destroy you! I will drag this through the courts until you don’t have a penny left!”
Before he could take two steps, both sheriff deputies moved with lightning speed.
One deputy grabbed Brandon’s right arm, twisting it behind his back, while the other forced his shoulder against the marble column.
Click.
The sound of stainless steel handcuffs snapping shut around Brandon’s wrists echoed across the grand entrance.
“Brandon Whitaker, you are under arrest for criminal intimidation and violating a protective order,” the lead deputy recited calmly.
Claire stepped forward, standing beside the deputy.
“Lily and Owen are staying with me, Brandon.”
“Judge Harrison granted me emergency sole physical and legal custody this morning.”
“You are not allowed within five hundred feet of my children or this estate.”
Brandon thrashed against the deputy’s grip, his face pressed against the cold stone.
“Claire! You can’t do this to me! I made you who you are!”
“No, Brandon,” Claire whispered, her voice filled with a liberation she hadn't felt in a decade.
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“You made me your prisoner.”
“And today, I walked out of the cage.”
