“Counsel…” Judge Harrison stammered, his judicial composure entirely cracking. He held the paper up, his voice rising in volume, echoing loudly off the wood-paneled walls. “Are your clients fully, legally aware that they have just formally petitioned the court to assume personal liability for twelve million dollars in defaulted, hostile offshore loans?”
The smug smile on Beatrice’s face didn’t just freeze; it shattered completely. The healthy, arrogant color instantly drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin a sickening, pale shade of grey. She looked exactly like a corpse that had been propped up in a chair.
“What?” Chloe gasped, her voice a high, terrified squeak. Her brand-new, expensive designer handbag slipped from her lap, hitting the floor with a dull thud. “What loans? He was rich!”
“And,” the judge continued, his voice booming now, reading further down the page, “are they aware of the pending federal indictments for massive wire fraud associated with the shell companies they are listed as board members of? Not to mention the three million dollars in unpaid back taxes currently owed to the Internal Revenue Service?”
Beatrice’s lead attorney practically choked on his own spit. He lunged forward, trying to snatch the document from the judge’s hand, his face white with terror. “Your Honor! We had no knowledge of this! We request an immediate recess to withdraw the petition!”
“It is too late for that, Counselor,” I said.
I turned my body, slowly rotating to face the plaintiff’s table. I looked directly into Beatrice’s wide, horrified, bulging eyes. The arrogant matriarch who had thrown me and my daughter out of our home was completely, utterly paralyzed by the sudden, catastrophic annihilation of her reality.
“You demanded his entire legacy, Beatrice,” I said softly, my voice cold, sharp, and merciless. “You fought for it. You claimed it was your bloodright. Well… it’s all yours now.”
Right on cue, as if orchestrated by a master conductor, the heavy oak doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a loud, definitive crash.
Two stern-faced men wearing dark windbreakers with the bright yellow letters IRS-CID emblazoned across their backs stepped into the room. They were flanked by a pair of armed federal marshals.
“Beatrice Vance and Chloe Sterling?” the lead agent barked, holding up a thick stack of federal warrants.