Chapter 6 - My Mother’s Tears Mean Nothing
We walked out of the Fairmont Copley Plaza into the crisp autumn night air. Three black armored Suburbans were idling along the curb, their tinted windows reflecting the city lights. A crowd of onlookers and paparazzi had already begun gathering near the entrance, tipped off by the sudden arrival of federal vehicles and private security.
Marcus held the door open for us. Julian guided me into the heated leather interior of the middle vehicle before climbing in beside me. The door closed with a heavy, vault-like thud, instantly sealing out the sound of sirens, shouting guests, and the cold Boston wind.
I let out a long, ragged exhale that I felt like I had been holding for fifteen years.
Julian pulled a warm cashmere blanket from the seat compartment and wrapped it carefully around my shoulders. He opened an insulated flask, poured hot black tea into a small porcelain cup, and pressed it into my hands.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, searching my eyes with genuine concern.
“I’m better than all right,” I whispered, taking a sip of the tea. The heat radiated through my chest, chasing away the phantom chill of the fountain water. “For the first time in my life, I don't feel like I’m waiting for their executioner’s axe to fall. It’s over.”
Before the driver could pull into traffic, a desperate pounding sounded against Julian’s window.
I looked out. It was my mother.
Patricia had run out of the hotel without her fur coat. Her expensive silk dress was whipping in the cold wind, her hair coming undone, mascara running down both sides of her face in grotesque black rivers. She was slamming her bare palms against the reinforced glass, mouthing words through tears.
“Meredith! Please! Open the door! Let me talk to you! I’m your mother!”
Julian didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the glass. He simply reached over and took my free hand, his warm fingers interlacing with mine, leaving the decision entirely up to me.
I pressed the electronic window button, lowering it just two inches. The frigid air rushed in, carrying the sound of her frantic, sobbing voice.
“Meredith, darling, you must listen to me,” Patricia cried, clutching the window ledge with manicured nails that were now chipped and bleeding. “Your father is having chest pains. The paramedics are inside with him right now! Allison is hysterical—the Wellingtons are canceling the marriage license before it’s even registered! We have nothing left! You can’t let Julian destroy our family name! What will our friends at the country club say? What will society say?”
I looked at my mother’s face. Even now, with her husband having a medical episode and her daughter’s sham marriage disintegrating into criminal fraud, her primary terror was the country club gossip.
“You never called me darling until Julian Sterling put an eight-carat diamond on my hand,” I said, my voice dead calm.
“That’s not true! I’ve always loved you! Mothers and daughters have difficult relationships, Meredith, but blood is thicker than water!”
“Blood didn't stop you from laughing when my head hit the stone rim of that fountain, Mother,” I replied. “Blood didn't make you step forward to offer your coat when I was shivering on the ballroom floor. You stood beside Allison and watched me drown in front of two hundred people.”
“I was in shock! I didn't know what to do!” she wailed. “Please, Meredith, tell Julian to withdraw the loan recall! We will do whatever you want! We will apologize publicly! We will put a full-page apology in the Boston Globe! Just don't let them take our home! The townhouse has been in the Campbell family for four generations!”
“Then Robert shouldn't have used it as collateral for his hedge-fund bets,” I said coldly.
“Meredith, you can’t be this cruel!” Patricia shrieked, her voice turning sharp and venomous again, the mask slipping off completely. “I gave you life! You owe us everything! You are an ungrateful, spiteful little girl who has harbored jealousy toward your sister since the day she was born!”
Julian leaned across me, his icy grey eyes piercing right through the narrow gap in the window.
“Mrs. Campbell,” Julian spoke, his tone sharp enough to sever steel. “If you do not remove your hands from this vehicle within three seconds, I will have my security detail file a formal restraining order and criminal harassment charges against you tonight. And unlike your husband, my lawyers never lose.”
Patricia froze. She looked at Julian, then back at me, realizing with absolute finality that her emotional manipulation had zero power here.
May you like
I pressed the button. The reinforced glass rolled smoothly to the top, completely cutting off her voice.
“Driver,” Julian said calmly through the intercom. “Take us home to Beacon Hill.”
