Chapter 4 - The Citadel of Wealth
The wrought-iron gates of the Whitaker estate in Greenwich opened automatically as my SUV approached, the security cameras panning down to recognize my license plate. Usually, returning home felt like entering a museum. Today, it felt like walking into a combat zone.
Inside the sprawling limestone mansion, the atmosphere was thick with suppressed panic.
When I strode through the grand double doors, my mother was standing in the foyer, dressed in an immaculate St. John cashmere suit, speaking sharply to her executive assistant. Behind her, the sweeping marble staircase gleamed under a massive crystal chandelier.
Victoria stopped mid-sentence as she saw me. Her eyes swept over my rumpled suit—the same one I had worn yesterday before everything blew up—and then flicked past me to the doorway.
“Julian Alexander Whitaker,” Victoria barked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Where on earth have you been? Do you have any idea the absolute humiliation you caused last night? The Cartwrights were waiting in the conservatory for forty-five minutes before I had to tell them you fell violently ill with food poisoning! Brielle has been in tears—”
“Save it, Mother,” I cut her off, my voice cold enough to shatter glass.
I stepped fully into the foyer, and behind me, Mara walked in, holding Milo's hand, with Max, Mason, and Micah trailing close behind, their big eyes taking in the ridiculous opulence of the grand hall.
Victoria’s breath caught in her throat.
The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a marble statue. She stared at Mara, and then her gaze dropped down to the four identical little boys standing in a row on her imported Persian rug.
“What... what is the meaning of this?” Victoria stammered, her patrician composure cracking for the first time in her life.
“You remember Mara, don't you?” I stepped forward, putting myself directly between my mother and my family. “Though I suppose you didn't expect to ever see her again. And certainly not with an entourage of four very intelligent, very observant little boys who happen to have my exact face.”
“Julian, have you lost your mind?” Victoria recovered quickly, her chin lifting as she channeled every ounce of her aristocratic arrogance. “Bring some stray vagrants off the street and into my home? Get these children out of here immediately before I call security!”
“Call them,” I challenged, pulling my phone from my pocket and tapping the screen. “Call security. Call the police. Call the Cartwrights while you're at it. Because the moment the authorities look at the financial wire transfers from your personal accounts to two private mercenaries six years ago, we’re going to find out who’s really getting locked away.”
Victoria flinched. The micro-expression lasted only a fraction of a second, but I caught it. The realization that I had uncovered her crime hit her like a physical blow.
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“You’re bluffing,” she whispered, her voice dropping into a venomous hiss.
“Try me,” I replied, stepping right up to her. “Because by noon today, every major media outlet in New York is going to receive a complete dossier on how Victoria Whitaker kidnapped a pregnant college student and hid her grandchildren away in the shadows.”
