Chapter 10 - BRIelle'S REAL FATHER
Brielle stared at Mom.
“What did you just say?”
Diane immediately regretted it.
That was obvious.
But she could no longer pull the words back.
I looked at my sister.
We had never looked alike.
Nobody cared.
Sisters didn’t have to.
I had Dad’s dark hair and gray eyes.
Brielle had lighter hair and Mom’s green eyes.
It had never mattered.
Until now.
“Who is her father?” I asked.
Diane said nothing.
Brielle screamed.
“WHO?”
A nurse appeared at the door.
Grant quietly told her we needed another minute.
Diane finally sank into the chair.
“Elliot.”
The name didn’t register at first.
Then it did.
Elliot Vance.
The attorney.
The man leaking trust information.
The man involved in the custody petition.
Brielle looked physically ill.
“He’s my father?”
Diane nodded.
The affair had begun thirty-one years earlier when Elliot was a young associate working occasionally for Grandpa.
Michael discovered it after Brielle’s birth.
A paternity test confirmed the truth.
That was one reason the marriage collapsed.
But Michael still considered Brielle his daughter.
He wanted contact with both of us.
Diane prevented it.
Suddenly, Elliot’s involvement made terrible sense.
He wasn’t just my mother’s attorney.
He was Brielle’s biological father.
The fake birthday budget was partly designed to pay Elliot because he believed helping gain control of Clara’s trust could finally secure Brielle financially.
The cruelty was almost elegant in its complexity.
Everyone stealing for someone they claimed to love.
Brielle looked at me.
“I didn’t know.”
For the first time since she entered my hospital room, I believed her completely.
She knew about the custody scheme.
She knew Mom wanted the trust.
But she had not known Elliot was her father.
Police escorted Diane away.
Brielle remained.
She looked at Clara.
Then at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t ready.
“Not today.”
She nodded.
That mattered.
The old Brielle would have demanded forgiveness immediately.
Henry closed his laptop.
“There is one more issue.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
He handed Grant a folder.
“What now?”
“Your dry-cleaning business.”
Grant opened it.
His face changed.
Someone had recently filed a commercial lien against our shop.
For $168,000.
The creditor was a company neither of us recognized.
But the registered address belonged to Elliot Vance.
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My family hadn’t merely prepared to take Clara.
They had also prepared to destroy the income that would help me fight them.
