Chapter 3 - The Patriarch's Fix
Arthur walked into the penthouse like he owned the air inside it.
He wore a pristine charcoal overcoat that smelled sharply of dry-cleaning fluid and Bombay Sapphire. He didn't look at the guests. He didn't look at Chloe. He looked at the massive screen displaying the deed transfer.
"Turn that off," Arthur ordered. His voice was gravel, worn down by decades of screaming at executives.
Eleanor clicked the remote. The screen went black.
"Arthur," Eleanor said, nodding. "You're up late."
"The IPO launches at 9:00 AM tomorrow," Arthur rasped, shrugging off his coat. "I get a frantic text from my idiot son about a lockdown. What is this circus?"
Richard stepped forward, his tone dropping an octave to match his father's. "Eleanor is having a manic episode. She fabricated a photo."
"I don't care if she hired Spielberg to fake it," Arthur snapped. He turned his heavy gaze to Chloe, who was still clutching her stomach. "You. Sister. How far along are you?"
Chloe blinked, her lip trembling. "Five months."
Arthur reached into his jacket. He pulled out a sleek leather checkbook and a platinum Montblanc pen. He uncapped it with his teeth.
"I am writing a number," Arthur said, scribbling furiously. "It has six zeroes. You will take this, you will get on a plane to a clinic in Geneva, and you will erase this mistake. Tomorrow, you are a ghost."
He tore the check and held it out.
Chloe stared at the fluttering paper. She didn't take it.
"I don't want your money," Chloe whispered.
May you like
Arthur’s jaw tightened. "Everyone wants my money."
"I want the name," Chloe said, her voice steadying. She sat up straight, dropping the hyperventilation act. "My child is a legitimate heir."
