Chapter 7 - The Plea on the Steps
By Thursday morning, the fall of the Whitlock family was complete.
The foreclosure on the Lake Forest estate had been finalized, forcing Celeste to pack three suitcases of clothing before local marshals locked the gates. The story of the "Fake Billionaire Executive" had made the front pages of Chicago business journals, completely erasing whatever social standing the family had possessed.
I spent the morning at my private obstetrician's clinic in Northwestern Memorial Hospital, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat of my baby girl on the monitor screen.
"Everything looks perfect, Mara," Dr. Aris smiled, wiping the ultrasound gel from my belly. "Lily is growing wonderfully. Blood pressure is great. Keep avoiding stress."
"I am," I smiled, pulling down my shirt. "The stress was taken care of earlier this week."
Ten minutes later, as I stepped out through the hospital's private lobby doors accompanied by my two security officers, I found Grant and Celeste waiting on the sidewalk.
They looked unrecognizable.
Celeste was wearing a wrinkled coat, her hair unwashed, her famous pearls missing—sold to an pawn shop two days earlier to pay for a motel room. Grant was sitting on the concrete steps, his head in his hands, wearing the same suit he had worn on Monday.
The moment Celeste saw me, she rushed forward, dropping to her knees right on the cold stone pavement in front of my security team.
"Mara! Mara, please!" Celeste sobbed hysterically, reaching her hands out toward me. "Mara, look at me! I’m begging you! Please!"
I stopped behind my security detail, looking down at the woman who four nights ago had poured ice water over my head and called me a burden.
"Get up, Celeste," I said quietly.
"No! I won't get up until you help us!" Celeste wept, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. "We have nowhere to go, Mara! The bank locked the house! They towed my car! Grant's accounts are zero! They're threatening to arrest him for corporate fraud!"
Grant crawled up the steps toward me on his hands and knees, his face twisted in pathetic, desperate grief.
"Mara... please," Grant choked out, tears dropping onto his shoes. "I was wrong. I was so wrong. I was blinded by my mother... by Serena... by my own pride. I love you, Mara! You're my wife! We're having a baby together!"
"You didn't care about the baby when you let your mother pour freezing water over my stomach, Grant," I said, my voice entirely devoid of anger. "You smiled."
"I was stupid!" Grant cried, slapping his own forehead with his hand. "I was an idiot! I’ll do anything, Mara! I’ll work in the mailroom! I’ll sign whatever custody agreement you want! Just please... don't send me to prison! Don't leave my mother on the street!"
I stood looking at them for a long moment.
The grand Whitlock family. The defenders of old money, social standards, and family superiority. Kneeling on a hospital sidewalk, weeping at the feet of the quiet girl they thought was too poor to belong in their world.
"I am not sending you to prison, Grant," I said softly. "The District Attorney and the forensic evidence are doing that."
"Mara..." Celeste whimpered, reaching for the hem of my coat.
"Three years ago," I said, looking down at Celeste, "you told me at Christmas dinner that some women are born to rule, and others are born to serve. You asked me which one I thought I was."
Celeste choked on her sob, unable to answer.
"I didn't answer you then," I continued. "Because I didn't need to prove anything to you. But today, I’ll give you your answer."
I stepped around them, sliding into the backseat of my idling town car.
"I don't serve," I said as the security guard held the door. "And I don't forgive people who try to harm my child."
May you like
I pulled the door shut.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I looked out the tinted window. Grant was laying flat on his face on the pavement, sobbing into his hands, while Celeste sat beside him, staring into the traffic with hollow, defeated eyes.
