Chapter 8 - Standing At The Front Door
Sitting by the marble fireplace was my mother, Eleanor Whitaker, looking immaculate in a tailored emerald silk dress with pearls resting against her throat. She held a crystal glass of white wine in her hand, her expression serene until her eyes locked onto mine.
The wineglass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the Persian rug as expensive liquid splashed across the floorboards. Several of her wealthy friends let out sharp gasps, pressing their hands to their chests in profound shock.
“Daniel?” Eleanor whispered, her voice losing every ounce of its usual aristocratic composure as she stood up unsteadily from her velvet armchair. “You... you’re supposed to be in Chicago visiting your military division contacts over the holidays.”
“Change of plans, Mother,” I said, stepping further into the parlor while ignoring the staring guests completely. “I decided to visit the most manipulative person I know instead.” Eleanor’s face drained of color, her pale skin turning as white as the snow outside.
“Children, please excuse us for a moment,” Eleanor forced out through tight lips, turning a strained smile toward her stunned bridge club companions. “My son has returned unexpectedly from his travels, and we need to discuss a private family matter.”
The three elderly women grabbed their designer purses in a hurry, scurrying past me toward the hallway like fleeing mice. Within seconds, the heavy parlor doors clicked shut again, leaving just the two of us standing in the opulent room.
May you like
Eleanor grabbed the edge of the marble mantelpiece to steady herself, her chin lifting with a familiar haughty defiance. “Is this how you treat your mother on Christmas Eve, Daniel? barging into my home like a common savage?”
“A savage?” I repeated, letting out a dark, humorless laugh that made her flinch. “I learned from the best, Mother. You taught me how to destroy the things you don't like behind a polite smile.”
