Chapter 5 - The Contract on the Napkin
""Leaving?"" Brandon blinked, glancing from Paige to the crowded ballroom where two hundred guests were waiting. ""Paige, we haven't even had the first dance. My parents flew in from Atlanta for this! My father paid for the open bar!""
""I don't care about the open bar, Brandon!"" Paige screamed, her composure entirely shattering. ""My father tried to bankrupt us before we even started our lives together!""
David rushed forward, grabbing Paige by the forearm. ""Paige, stop this right now! Do not make a scene in front of Brandon’s family! We can discuss this tomorrow morning at the house. Elaine is twisting everything, she’s bitter because she wasn't at the head table—""
""Don't you dare touch her,"" I said, stepping between David and his daughter. For fourteen years, I had deferred to David on matters concerning Paige. Whenever discipline was needed, whenever tough conversations arose, David had always used the same excuse: She’s my daughter, Elaine. You don't know the trauma she went through.
I had stepped back. I had swallowed my pride. I had walked on eggshells in my own house, cooking meals, folding laundry, driving her to school, and funding her whims, all while David played the fun, indulgent father.
Now, I saw him for what he truly was: a coward who hid behind women's grief to protect his own vanity.
""Let go of her arm, David,"" I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, deadly cold. ""Or I will take this microphone from the DJ stand and read Miriam’s forensic audit to every single person in this room, starting with Brandon’s parents.""
David released Paige’s arm as if he had been burned.
Miriam slowly rose from her chair at Table Nineteen. She picked up the yellow envelope and handed it directly to Brandon. ""Young man,"" Miriam said with quiet authority. ""You seem like a decent person. Do not let Paige sign any documents from Beatrice or David tonight. Tomorrow morning, take this envelope to Kenneth Vance at Vance & Associates in downtown Columbus. He was Rebecca's corporate attorney. He has the original trust documents.""
Brandon looked at the thick stack of papers, then looked at David’s terrified expression. ""Sir... did you try to put business debt into Paige’s name?""
""It’s a corporate restructuring, Brandon, you don't understand how business works!"" David stammered.
""I’m an accountant, Mr. Foster,"" Brandon said flatly. His face hardened. He wrapped an arm around Paige’s trembling shoulders. ""Come on, Paige. We’re getting out of here.""
""Wait!"" Beatrice cried out, stepping forward to block their path. ""Paige, if you walk out of this reception now, you will humiliate this entire family! The Fosters do not air their dirty laundry in public!""
Paige stopped. She looked at Beatrice, the grandmother she had idolized for twenty years, the woman who had taught her how to hold a champagne flute and look down her nose at service workers.
""You told me my mother was weak,"" Paige whispered, tears running freely down her face. ""You told me she came from nothing and that I should be grateful you took her in. But she left me five hundred thousand dollars, didn't she? And you spent it.""
Paige reached behind her head, unclipped the elaborate, thousand-dollar veil from her hair—the veil I had spent three Saturday afternoons helping her select—and threw it directly at Beatrice’s feet.
""You're not my family,"" Paige said, echoing the exact words she had spat at me only two hours earlier. ""Neither of you are.""
May you like
Paige turned, gripped Brandon’s hand, and walked out the side exit near the kitchen, leaving the heavy metal doors swinging shut behind her.
The reception hall fell dead silent. The DJ stopped the music. Two hundred guests sat frozen at their tables, staring at the back corner of the room where the Foster family stood in ruins beside Table Nineteen.
