Chapter 7 - THE CRACKING DYNASTY
The Mercer family fortune had been constructed on an illusion of aristocratic stability, but under the heat of a criminal grand jury, it melted like paraffin.
By Thursday afternoon, the battle lines within Hawthorne Ridge had turned fratricidal.
Inside the mahogany-paneled library of Una Mercer’s estate, three high-priced defense attorneys sat around a sprawling Queen Anne conference table. Una sat at the head, her posture rigid, her face heavily powdered to conceal the lines of terror etched around her mouth.
Bellamy sat across from her, her designer sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, her cuticles bitten raw.
“We tell them the truth,” Bellamy spat, glaring at her mother. “You told me to get her out of the shot! You told me that if Veta ruined another commercial partnership, you were going to cut off my studio stipend! You handed me the poker, Mother!”
Una’s eyes turned into cold marble slits. “I did nothing of the sort. I told you to adjust the fireplace damper because the draft was flickering your candles. You chose to pick up an antique tool and swing it at a medical console like a lunatic.”
“You lying witch!” Bellamy shrieked, lunging half across the table before her lead attorney, Marcus Kane, grabbed her arm.
“Sit down, Bellamy!” Kane snapped. “Both of you, shut your mouths! The state has Declan’s uncompressed video file. They have sixty frames per second of audio and video. Bellamy, you are clearly visible on camera swinging the tool while laughing. Una, your voice is distinctly audible telling Declan to document Veta’s ‘psychological episode.’ You cannot run conflicting defenses in front of the same jury!”
The heavy library door swung open without a knock.
Kieran Mercer stood in the doorway. He wore an old canvas jacket and work boots, looking like he belonged to an entirely different species than the manicured monsters sitting at the table.
Una looked up, her expression shifting instantly into an imperious mask. “Kieran. It’s about time you came home. Go upstairs and pack your things. You will be moving into the carriage house to manage the property while Bellamy handles her legal appointments.”
Kieran walked into the room. He didn't look at Bellamy. He looked directly at his mother.
“I’m not moving into the carriage house, Mom,” Kieran said quietly.
“Excuse me?”
Kieran pulled a folded white document from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the mahogany table. It slid across the polished wood, coming to rest between the legal briefs.
It was an official subpoena from the District Attorney’s Special Prosecutions Division.
“I spent four hours this morning giving a sworn videotaped deposition to the prosecutor,” Kieran said, his voice flat and steady.
Bellamy gasped. “You did what?!”
“I told them everything,” Kieran said, turning to look his sister dead in the eyes. “I told them how you’ve hated Veta since the day she was diagnosed because Dad left her the trust fund. I told them how you deliberately turned off her oxygen alarm during Christmas two years ago. And I told them that you told Declan you were going to ‘smash that noisy plastic toy’ ten minutes before she walked into the room.”
Bellamy’s face lost every drop of color. “You’re my brother! You’re committing perjury!”
“I took an oath, Bellamy,” Kieran said. “And for the first time in thirty-five years, someone in this family is going to tell the truth under oath.”
Una stood up, her hand slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the crystal water carafes. “You are dead to this family, Kieran! You will not receive a single cent from my estate! I will write you out of the will before the sun sets today!”
Kieran looked around the grand room—at the oil paintings, the gilded moldings, the antique rugs purchased with generational arrogance.
He smiled. A small, sad, liberated smile.
“There isn't going to be an estate left, Mom,” Kieran said softly.
He pulled a second document from his pocket.
“This was served on me by an officer outside the gate because I’m still technically listed as a corporate officer of Mercer Holdings,” Kieran said. “Sloan and Alaric Bennett just filed a thirty-five-million-dollar civil wrongful injury and intentional infliction of emotional distress suit in federal court. They’ve already filed a lis pendens against this house, the carriage studio, and the family trusts.”
Kieran stepped toward the door.
“Enjoy your lawyers,” he whispered. “They’re the only family you have left.”
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind him.
May you like
Across the room, Bellamy began to sob—not with remorse, but with the terrifying, suffocating realization that her kingdom of filters, vanity, and cruelty had collapsed into a cage.
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