Chapter 7 - The True Heir
The crisp Chicago breeze struck my face as I walked out of Bellamy's, clearing the suffocating stench of expensive cologne, cheap perfume, and deceit. The city skyline rose into the night sky, glittering like shattered glass along Michigan Avenue.
A sleek black town car was idling at the curb. The driver, Thomas—who had worked for my family since I was twelve years old—stepped out immediately, opening the rear door with a respectful bow.
"Everything handled, Miss Claire?" Thomas asked, his voice low and reassuring.
"Everything, Thomas," I said, sliding into the heated leather seat. "Take me to my mother's estate in Lake Forest."
"Right away, ma'am."
As the car pulled away from the curb, I looked out the tinted window. Across the street, standing near the valet station, two squad cars had their red and blue lights flashing silently against the wet pavement. I saw Grant being led out of the side entrance of Bellamy's in handcuffs, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in total defeat. Behind him, Madison was sobbing uncontrollably as an officer guided her into the back of a squad car.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Phones were out, recording every second of the spectacle. By midnight, Grant Holloway’s public downfall would be trending across every financial forum and social media platform in the Midwest. The golden boy of Chicago corporate finance had fallen, brought down not by a rival firm, but by the quiet wife he had dismissed as a bystander in his life.
I laid my head back against the seat and let out a long, shuddering breath.
For the first time in seventeen days, the crushing weight in my chest lifted. The tears that I had held back in the restaurant didn't come. There was no grief left to mourn. What Grant had destroyed wasn't a future; he had simply destroyed an illusion.
My baby shifted gently beneath my ribs, a tiny, fluttery movement that grounded me instantly in reality.
"We're going to be just fine," I whispered into the quiet car, resting both hands over my stomach. "You will never have to beg for a place at any table, little girl. Because the table belongs to us."
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When we arrived at the Lake Forest estate an hour later, the wrought-iron gates swung open automatically. The long gravel driveway wound through towering oaks, leading up to the grand stone manor where four generations of my family had lived.
The front door opened before the car even stopped. Standing on the wide stone porch, wrapped in a cream cashmere shawl, was my mother, Eleanor.
