Chapter 2 - THE GHOSTS IN THE ELEVATOR
“She already knows?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
I stared at Carolina. The haughty, arrogant woman who had just threatened to throw me down the service elevator was trembling. The champagne she had spilled was soaking into the expensive Persian rug, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Shut up, James,” Carolina hissed, her voice cracking. “You promised you would never come here. You signed an agreement!”
“An agreement?” I stepped forward, the shock wearing off, replaced by a deep, terrifying anger. I looked at the man who had been my husband. The man I had mourned for twenty-seven years. “You signed a contract regarding my daughter? With the man who bought her?”
James looked away, his gray hair catching the light of the crystal chandelier. He looked so old, so broken. Not the vibrant, loving father I remembered.
“Marina, please,” my brother Daniel said, taking a tentative step toward me. He held his hands up as if calming a wild animal. “You have to understand. We were broke. You were working three jobs. The medical bills from the twins’ birth…”
“Do not speak to me,” I snapped, my voice echoing through the massive living room. The sixty party guests had been herded into the foyer by the building manager, leaving only our twisted family in the center of the penthouse. “You let me scatter empty ashes into the ocean. You let me weep on a dock while you took my child!”
Rachel stepped between us, her face pale. “Mom, listen to them. Arthur Whitmore is dangerous.”
“Arthur Whitmore is my husband!” Carolina screamed, finally finding her voice. “And he gave me a life you never could have, you pathetic cleaning woman. Do you think I want you as a mother? You wear cheap shoes to an eighteen-million-dollar penthouse!”
I looked at her. My own flesh and blood. She had my eyes. She had James’s chin. But her soul was completely foreign to me.
“If you hate me so much, Carolina,” I said, keeping my voice dangerously calm, “why steal my home?”
Before she could answer, the heavy mahogany doors of the private elevator slid open again.
A man stepped out. He was in his late seventies, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, wearing a bespoke suit that cost more than most people made in a year. Arthur Whitmore. The billionaire real estate mogul.
“Because it was never your home, Marina,” Arthur said smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man used to destroying lives.
He walked into the room, not even glancing at James or my brother. He walked straight to Carolina and put a possessive, unsettling hand on her shoulder.
“Arthur,” my lawyer, Daniel, said.
I turned my head. My lawyer hadn't sounded surprised. He sounded deferential.
“Daniel,” Arthur replied. “Do you have the final transfer papers?”
My lawyer—the man I had trusted with my business for a decade—reached into his briefcase. He pulled out a blue folder and handed it directly to Arthur Whitmore.
The room spun.
“Daniel?” I whispered. “What are you doing?”
Answer One: Carolina knew her true parentage, but her cruelty was a defense mechanism orchestrated by her husband to push me away. Open Two: Why was my lawyer working for the man who stole my baby? And how did they legally get my signature?
My lawyer wouldn't look at me. “I’m sorry, Marina. Arthur’s firm owns the parent company of my law group. I had no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice!” Rachel screamed, lunging at the lawyer, but my brother pulled her back.
Arthur opened the folder and smiled. “You see, Marina, seven years ago you bought this penthouse out from under me. I wanted this property. But the seller liked your 'rags to riches' story. It humiliated me. So, I decided to take it back.”
“You stole my child twenty-seven years ago,” I breathed, the pieces falling into place. “And now you steal my property?”
“I didn't steal Carolina,” Arthur chuckled, a cold, dry sound. “I bought her. And I married her to ensure the trust fund I set up in her name remained entirely in my control. James here was more than happy to take two million dollars to fake his death and hand her over.”
I looked at James. He fell to his knees on the marble floor, weeping into his hands.
“But the penthouse,” Arthur continued, tapping the folder. “That required your signature. Fortunately, you had surgery three months ago. Anesthesia makes people very compliant, Marina. You signed this property over to your daughter Rachel in a power of attorney. And Rachel…”
Arthur smiled a wicked, triumphant smile.
“…Rachel sold it to me.”
I turned to Rachel. My loyal, fierce daughter.
“No,” Rachel gasped, shaking her head violently. “Mom, no! I never signed anything! I swear to you!”
Arthur pulled a silver pen from his pocket. “Really, Rachel? Then why did I find this in your apartment?”
He tossed a small object onto the marble counter.
May you like
It was a delicate gold bracelet. The one I had given Rachel on her sixteenth birthday. The one she swore she had lost two years ago, right before we stopped speaking.
Arthur looked at me, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Your daughter sold you out for a million dollars, Marina. She’s exactly like her father.”
