Chapter 23 - The Shadow Board of Boston General
Eleanor didn’t flinch as Marcus slammed his SUV door open and stormed through the downpour, his coat soaked, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. Two private security guards in charcoal suits immediately stepped out from behind the Mercedes, their hands hovering inside their tailored jackets.
"Step aside," Marcus growled, his voice guttural, vibrating with murderous intent. "Or shoot me right here under the hospital surveillance cameras. Do it, Eleanor! Show the world what a monster you are!"
Eleanor sighed, opening the car door herself and stepping gracefully onto the asphalt under a large umbrella held by her chauffeur. Even at two in the morning, her pearl-grey coat was spotless, her platinum hair perfectly sculpted. She looked at Marcus not with anger, but with an intolerable, patronizing pity.
"You always were prone to theatrical hysteria, Marcus," Eleanor said smoothly, her voice a calm cadence against the roar of the thunderstorm. "Just like your wretched father. You honestly think a petty hospital drug screen and a forged nurse's logbook can topple thirty years of philanthropic standing in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts?"
"Harrison found the paralytic in her system, Eleanor! You tried to stop her heart!"
"A tragic miscalculation by an overworked resident," Eleanor answered without blinking, taking a slow step toward him. "Which is precisely why, as the chairwoman of the Vance Charitable Trust and Chloe’s legal grandmother, I have intervened to transfer her to a specialized facility where she can receive competent care. The probate judge agreed with me forty minutes ago. You are emotionally compromised, Marcus. You are unfit to make medical decisions for that poor, fragile girl."
"You're broke," Marcus spat, stepping directly into her personal space, ignoring the security guards who drew their tasers. "Arthur told me everything. Chloe's blind trust vests at midnight tomorrow. You don't want her treated—you want her buried so you can steal her grandfather's fortune to cover your multi-million dollar fraud."
For the fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Eleanor’s jaw tightened, and her pale blue eyes flared with a lethal, venomous shock. But just as quickly, the cold smirk returned.
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"Arthur has been dead for seven years, Marcus," Eleanor whispered, leaning in so close he could smell the faint aroma of expensive lavender and formaldehyde on her skin. "And if you ever want to see your daughter breathe on her own again, you will hand over that audio tape in your pocket, walk into that hospital, and sign the conservatorship release."
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