Chapter 6: The West Wing
The sunlight hitting the high leaded windows of the west wing felt different from the harsh glare that used to beat down on the upper landing where Elena kept us. It was softer, filtered through decades of pale blue draperies and dust motes that danced in the quiet air of a room that hadn't seen a child's laughter in over thirty years. Toby sat on the edge of a mahogany bed large enough for three boys his age, swinging his legs back and forth while his fingers traced the fringe of a woolen quilt. He wore a fresh set of clothes Arthur's assistant had brought up from a local outfitter—soft cotton trousers and a dark green sweater that made his pale eyes look remarkably like his mother's. I stood by the tall dresser, folding his old tattered tunic and placing it deep into the bottom drawer as a reminder of where we had climbed from, even if we were never going back. A soft knock broke the stillness, and Arthur pushed the door open just enough to peer inside, his navy blazer discarded in favor of a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
"May I come in?" he asked, his voice losing the formal boardroom edge it usually carried when he spoke to outsiders. Toby stopped swinging his legs and looked up with a cautious curiosity that tore at my chest. He wasn't used to men asking for permission to enter a space; usually, doors opened with a heavy shove and a sharp demand. I nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile to the little boy before turning my attention back to the grandfather who was slowly trying to piece together the wreckage of his own bloodline. Arthur walked over to the bed, resting a heavy, weathered hand on the wooden bedpost. He looked down at Toby with an expression I couldn't quite read—part sorrow, part fierce determination that had likely built his shipping empire from the ground up.
"Your aunt tells me you like drawing, Toby," Arthur said, breaking the silence with a gentle cadence that surprised me. "There's a desk by the window with thick paper and pencils that don't break when you press too hard. Do you think you could show me your work sometime?" Toby slowly reached beside him on the quilt and picked up the bright yellow cleaning sponge he refused to let out of his sight, holding it like a shield. "I have to clean the desk first," Toby whispered, his eyes darting toward the floor. Arthur's jaw tightened slightly, a muscle ticking in his cheek before he knelt down to be at eye level with the boy. "No one is ever cleaning anything with that sponge again," Arthur said softly, reaching out to gently touch the edge of the damp yellow foam. "That sponge stays right here on the table as a reminder of what we are leaving behind. From now on, your only job is being eight years old."
The afternoon sun lengthened across the hardwood floor, casting long shadows that reached toward the grand staircase. Downstairs, the estate was unsettlingly quiet, the absence of Elena's sharp heels clicking on the marble serving as a strange kind of liberation. For the past three years, every breath in this house had been measured against her moods, her obsession with social standing, and her silent campaigns to erase any memory of Margaret, my late sister and Arthur's estranged daughter. I walked down the curved staircase alone, leaving Toby and Arthur to examine a box of old wooden building blocks found in the attic. My mind raced through the financial files I had copied and handed over to the corporate attorneys two nights prior. Elena hadn't just embezzled from the family foundation; she had systematically drained the trust accounts set up for Margaret's care before my sister passed away in a modest apartment two towns over.
May you like
As I reached the bottom landing, the heavy oak front door swung open without warning. It wasn't Elena, but her brother, Marcus, a man whose tailored suits always looked slightly too tight for his broad, aggressive frame. He stepped into the foyer with an air of unearned entitlement, his eyes locking onto me instantly. "You," Marcus spat, closing the distance between us with three rapid strides. "What kind of cheap parlor trick are you and this old man playing? Elena is sitting in a roadside motel off the interstate because your little corporate goons locked her credit cards." I stood my ground, my fingers curling into the fabric of my trousers as I remembered every cruel word she had hurled at Toby in that very hallway. "She's where she belongs," I said, my voice steady and cold, refusing to let him see the tremor in my hands. "And if you know what's good for your career, Marcus, you'll walk out those double doors before I call the guards who threw your sister's luggage into the gravel."
Marcus raised a heavy hand as if to brush me aside, but before his fingers could even graze my shoulder, a low, authoritative voice echoed from the top of the stairs. "Touch her, Marcus, and you'll spend the rest of your natural life defending yourself against every federal prosecutor this country has to offer." Arthur stood on the landing, his hands resting casually on the mahogany banister, his gaze fixed on Marcus with a predatory chill. Marcus froze, his arm hanging in mid-air, before he slowly lowered it and glared up at the patriarch who had once funded his entire lavish lifestyle. "You're making a mistake, Arthur," Marcus hissed, backing toward the door. "Elena knows things about this family's overseas accounts that will tear this foundation down to the foundation stones." Arthur didn't blink. "Let it burn," he said softly. "As long as you're all standing in the ash."
