Chapter 3 - The Frozen Fortress
Beatrice’s mouth fell open, her composure completely disintegrating on camera.
“Are you insane?” she screamed, forgetting all about decorum.
“I am not funding some random stranger’s groceries! You’re humiliating me in front of these peasants!”
The crowd erupted in angry boos.
Several women in the adjacent aisles openly shouted at her to learn some basic respect.
Arthur held up a hand, silencing the crowd with effortless authority.
“Eleanor,” Arthur called out to the woman holding the tablet behind him.
Eleanor, his top corporate attorney, stepped forward and tapped the screen twice.
“Yes, Mr. Sterling. The estate trust bylaws are open on screen.”
Arthur kept his eyes locked onto his daughter’s terrified face.
“Read clause fourteen, sub-section B, regarding the moral conduct stipulation of the Sterling Family Foundation.”
Eleanor adjusted her reading glasses and read in a clear, measured voice.
“Any beneficiary who publicly damages the philanthropic reputation of the family name may have all discretionary disbursements suspended indefinitely pending board review.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched in her throat.
That trust fund paid for her penthouse, her luxury wardrobe, and her trips to Paris every autumn.
Without it, she had no income, no savings, and zero work experience on any resume.
“You wouldn’t do that,” Beatrice whispered, her voice finally breaking.
“I’m your only daughter. Mom would never let you do this to me.”
“Your mother spent twenty years running the local food pantry before she passed away,” Arthur answered, his voice thick with raw emotion.
“If your mother were standing here today, she would be weeping for the monster you’ve turned into.”
The words hit Beatrice like a sledgehammer, draining whatever defiance she had left.
The grandmother, whose name badge on her worn coat read Martha, stepped forward hesitantly.
“Mr. Sterling, please,” Martha pleaded softly.
“Don’t tear your family apart over some frozen birds. I just wanted some soup for my boy.”
“This isn't about turkeys, Martha,” Arthur replied, his voice softening.
“This is about a rot that has grown inside my home while I was too busy making deals to notice.”
He turned back to Beatrice, his expression completely devoid of sympathy.
“You have two choices right now, Beatrice. You can walk out those doors, take your sports car, and leave.”
Beatrice looked toward the exit, a spark of hope flickering in her eyes.
“And what happens if I walk out?” she asked cautiously.
“Every card in your wallet gets declined before you reach the corner,” Arthur said flatly.
“The lease on your apartment terminates at midnight. And your phone gets disconnected within ten minutes.”
Beatrice swallowed hard, clutching her throat.
“And… what is the second choice?” she choked out.
May you like
Arthur gestured toward Martha and the remaining cart of groceries.
“You grab that cart, you push it to the counter, and you carry those groceries straight to Martha’s house.”
