There was a long, suffocating silence on the other end of the line. I could hear the faint sound of traffic through Owen’s phone, and then the sound of someone shifting heavily in a chair.
“That’s impossible,” Owen said, his voice dropping its arrogant edge, replaced by a sudden, jagged nervousness. “She wouldn’t do that. She’s my grandmother. Clara is an outsider. We’re getting divorced!”
“Which is precisely why the clause was activated,” Martin replied. “You gave her two hours to leave her own home, Owen. Fortunately for Clara, Beatrice ensured that the home was hers to keep. We will see you and your legal counsel in the probate court on Friday morning. Do not attempt to contact Clara directly again.”
Martin ended the call with a deliberate click.
I looked up at the older man, the reality of the situation finally breaking through the numbness that had protected me since the previous evening. Beatrice hadn’t just given me advice at that Christmas dinner; she had given me a shield. She had ensured that the man who tried to make me small would have to look up at me from the wreckage of his own ambition.
