Chapter 4 - The Fall of the Prodigal Son
Nathan dropped to his knees right there on the grass, completely abandoning whatever shreds of arrogance he had worn ten minutes earlier. He reached out to grab the hem of Beatrice’s coat, tears of sheer panic cutting clean lines through his makeup.
"Grandmother, don't do this! I’m your grandson! I’m the only Witford heir left! If you cut me out, who takes over the company? Who manages the board? The firm will collapse without a direct heir!"
"You were never an heir, Nathan," Beatrice said looking down at him with unyielding disgust. "You were merely an option. An option that expired the second you decided cruelty was a substitute for strength."
Beatrice turned away from him and walked straight toward me. The iron hardness in her face melted into profound, grandmotherly warmth. She reached out, taking both of my hands into her soft leather gloves, and looked down at my pregnant belly.
"How is my great-grandchild, Clara?" she asked softly.
"Strong, Grandma," I replied, tears finally stinging my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming relief of knowing my child would never be subjected to Nathan’s toxic vanity. "Healthy and kicking."
Beatrice smiled, patting my hand gently. Then she turned back toward Franklin Vance.
"Franklin. Read the revised deed of assignment."
Franklin adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and projected his voice so every phone and news camera on the lawn caught every syllable.
"By order of the Board of Trustees of the Witford Holding Corporation," Franklin announced, "Nathan Witford is hereby removed from all executive titles, stripped of all voting shares, and barred from accessing company accounts, effective immediately. Furthermore, all residential properties owned by the trust, including this estate, are to be vacated within twenty-four hours."
Nathan sobbed openly, rocking back and forth on the grass, while Sienna turned on her designer heels and sprinted toward the parking lot, desperate to escape before the media cameras could capture her ruined face.
"And as for the trust assets," Franklin continued, looking directly at me, "the controlling fifty-one percent super-majority shares of Witford Holdings, along with the family estate and the maritime trust funds valued at eighty-two million dollars, are transferred into an irrevocable trust held solely by Clara Witford, for the benefit of the unborn child, with Clara serving as sole independent trustee and Executive Chairwoman of the Board."
The entire garden erupted into breathless gasps.
Nathan’s head snapped up, his jaw hanging open as if he had been struck by lightning. "What?! Her?! You gave everything to her?! She has no pedigree! She's a nobody!"
"She is the mother of the next generation," Beatrice replied, her voice ringing out like a cathedral bell. "And unlike you, Nathan, she knows the difference between real value and cheap performance."
Beatrice signaled to the security guards—the guards whose paychecks were now written under my corporate trust.
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"Escort this man off the property," Beatrice ordered. "He has an hour to pack one suitcase from the guest house. If he steps foot on this grass again, have him arrested for criminal trespassing."
Two burly guards stepped forward, hoisting Nathan up by his linen jacket while he screamed and thrashed, his pathetic cries fading as they dragged him down the long gravel driveway toward the iron gates.
