Chapter 8 - The Return of the Heir
Thomas Whitmore gripped the edges of the wooden podium so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face shifted from arrogant triumph to a grey, sickly horror as his eyes locked onto the girl’s face. He knew that face. He had seen it twenty-two years ago in the backseat of a car in the middle of a rainy night.
"Eleanor," Thomas stammered into the microphone, his voice amplification making his panic audible to the entire room. "What... what is the meaning of this? This is a private shareholder vote."
Eleanor and Lucy reached the front of the stage. Eleanor didn't take the stairs; she stood at the base of the podium, looking up at her husband's brother.
"The vote is canceled, Thomas," Eleanor said, her voice clear and carrying to every corner of the ballroom without the aid of a microphone. "Because the trust structure of Whitmore Hospitality dictates that the majority shareholding block belongs to the living descendants of Charles Whitmore. And as of forty minutes ago, the legal heir has returned."
The boardroom members stood up, whispering frantically.
"That’s impossible!" Thomas shouted, his composure completely breaking. "Clara died in Maine! We buried her! You’re bringing a fraud into this room to keep your seat!"
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Lucy stepped forward, leaving her mother’s side. She walked up the stairs of the stage, her high heels clicking firmly against the wood. She stood right in front of the podium, looking down at the man who had stolen her life.
"You buried an empty box, Uncle Thomas," Lucy said, the word Uncle cutting through the air like a knife. "You dropped me off at a truck stop in New York with a fractured skull, hoping the winter would finish what your fire started. But I survived. I survived your streets, I survived your hotels, and today, I’m taking my table back."
