Chapter 6 - The Gates of HillsboroughThe Blackwood estate in Hillsborough was less of a home and more of a heavily fortified palace. Nestled behind towering iron security gates draped in ivy, the sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion commanded a panoramic view of the entire San Francisco Bay.
When my Honda Civic pulled up to the gated entrance at precisely 11:30 a.m., the private security guard in the glass booth stepped out, his face registering immediate, open shock.
He didn't recognize the car, but he recognized me.
Before he could reach for the intercom button to tell us to turn around, I hit the automatic window switch, leaned out, and pressed the unlock button on my dashboard.
“Open the gates,” I said, my voice carrying a cold, commanding authority that made the guard hesitate.
“Miss Gomez—uh, Miss Hayes,” the guard stammered, his hand hovering over the phone. “Mr. Blackwood left strict instructions that—well, given yesterday’s events—you aren't permitted—”
“I am the legal co-trustee of the Blackwood-Gomez commercial holdings, and I have federal documentation regarding an active probate fraud investigation,” I lied smoothly, brandishing the USB drive in my hand like a badge. “If you don't open these gates in the next five seconds, I will have the county sheriff here with a warrant before you can finish your coffee. Open the damn gate.”
The guard swallowed hard, weighed his employment against my terrifying aura of calm fury, and pressed the heavy iron button.
The gates groaned open.
I drove my battered Civic up the steep, impeccably manicured stone driveway, parking it right in the center of the circular courtyard between an immaculate silver Bentley and a matte-black Porsche.
Mom sat beside me in the passenger seat, taking a slow, deep breath as we surveyed the scene. Through the grand arched glass doors of the back patio, we could see dozens of high-society guests dressed in designer pastel summer suits and silk dresses, sipping mimosas by the sparkling infinity pool.
It was supposed to be our wedding reception celebration.
Instead, it was a gathering of sharks waiting to carve up the carcass of my inheritance.
As Mom and I stepped out of the car, the chatter by the pool died down instantly. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass.
Standing near the center of the patio, holding a crystal flute of champagne while laughing with a group of local politicians, was Brandon. He looked immaculate in an cream-linen blazer, his hair styled to perfection.
Beside him stood his mother, Eleanor—wearing an emerald Chanel dress and a diamond choker that cost more than my entire college education.
And a few feet away, awkwardly picking at a fruit skewer, stood Brianna, her hacked blonde hair pinned back with an oversized designer clip to disguise her missing ponytail.
Brandon froze mid-laugh as his eyes landed on us.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost. He set his champagne glass down so hard it cracked against the glass patio table, spilling champagne across the white tablecloth.
He started walking toward us, his expression shifting from shock to furious, defensive panic.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brandon hissed, storming across the patio tiles until he stood right in front of us. His voice was low, meant to stay out of earshot of the guests. “Are you out of your mind? Showing up here after throwing a hysterical temper tantrum yesterday?”
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I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply looked up at him with a smile so cold it made him take an involuntary half-step back.
“Good morning, Brandon,” I said sweetly. “Did you really think getting rid of my wedding dress and ruining my mother’s hair was going to be enough to get rid of us?”
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