Chapter 7 - The True Heir of the EstateThree months later, the spring sun was blooming across the manicured lawns of the Buckhead estate, painting the gardens in brilliant shades of violet, emerald, and gold.
The federal trial had been swift and devastating. Armed with three years of encrypted backups, financial forensic audits, and comprehensive surveillance logs provided by Marcus’s security grid, the prosecution left zero room for defense. Sabina was sentenced to twelve years in a federal penitentiary for corporate espionage and wire fraud, her social standing reduced to ash. Rosamund received a fifteen-year sentence without the possibility of parole, her network of offshore shell companies dismantled piece by piece.
Inside the grand kitchen, the atmosphere was entirely transformed.
The staff had been completely restructured, hand-picked by Chadworth himself with an emphasis on transparency, trust, and genuine care. But today, the kitchen wasn't being run by hired help.
Chadworth stood at the marble island wearing an apron over his crisp white shirt, expertly flipping pancakes on a hot griddle while flour dusted his cheek.
Lorelai sat at the counter, laughing as she tried to stack fresh strawberries on a plate, while Gemma stirred chocolate chips into a bowl of waffle batter.
“Dad, you’re burning the edges!” Gemma giggled, pointing excitedly at the skillet.
“That’s not burning, chef Gemma, that’s professional-grade caramelization,” Chadworth chuckled, sliding a golden-brown pancake onto Lorelai’s plate with a theatrical flourish.
The heavy front double doors chimed as they swung open.
Marcus stepped into the kitchen carrying a thick leather portfolio stamped with corporate legal seals. He offered Chadworth a respectful, knowing nod.
“Good morning, Mr. Prescott,” Marcus said. “The board meeting is set for ten o’clock downtown. The emergency restructuring is complete, and the new board of directors has officially ratified the family trust transfer.”
Chadworth wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, walking over to take the portfolio. He opened it, scanning the crisp legal pages that legally bound 51 percent of Prescott Enterprises’ voting shares into an unbreakable trust dedicated entirely to his daughters' future—a trust that could never be touched by corporate raiders, fraudulent fiancées, or manipulative domestic staff.
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“Thank you, Marcus,” Chadworth said quietly, signing his name with a steady, resolute hand. “Cancel my afternoon travel schedule. I’m taking the rest of the week off.”
Marcus smiled faintly. “Smartest business decision you’ve made all year, sir.”
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