Sweet Retribution, page 29
“He believes he’s back in control because Kai made a deal that we would hand over the recording from Christmas after the vote.”
Charlie arches a brow, drilling Father with a poisonous look when he glances our way. He’s still pontificating, and he really does love the sound of his own voice.
“That doesn’t sound like a smart move on Kaiden’s part,” Charlie whispers in my ear.
“We had our reasons,” I cryptically admit, and that’s as much as I’m prepared to say. I have no clue which team he’s supporting, if any, and I can’t let my guard down around him.
“How many times have you been told it’s rude to whisper at the table,” Father barks at me.
“I apologize, Father.” I almost choke over the words as they leave my mouth.
“I hope you enjoyed your little rebellion these past couple months, because after today, everything is going to change.”
“We had a deal,” I remind him, even though I am in no way surprised he’s reneging on it. It’s what we’ve all been expecting.
“I don’t negotiate with punks,” he supplies, grinning, and I work hard to fight my own grin. His predictability was inevitable, and he’s sitting here, gloating and acting all superior-like because he thinks he has all copies of the Christmas Day recording in his possession.
But only because we want him to think that.
For months, he’s been searching for it, and it wasn’t that difficult to drop a few breadcrumbs. His PI took the bait, retrieving the box with the recordings we’d hidden in the earth under the old oak tree on the grounds of Chez Manning.
He believes he has the upper hand, and I’m not going to dispute it. We want him to feel supreme confidence as he walks into that room, thinking he has everything under control. Which is why we also threw Atticus and Patrice under the bus last night.
Xavier sent an anonymous email to Father’s private account with video evidence of their betrayal. I’m certain he has something planned for Atticus, especially if the bruising around Patrice’s neck this morning is any indication. Oh, she’s done a good job of disguising it, but I saw the marks before she tied the silk scarf around her throat. She’s as timid as a mouse at the table, jumping every time his loud voice booms around the room. Whatever punishment he doled out has scared her into submission, but I highly doubt he is through with her yet.
And I don’t need any proof to know he fucked Isabella last night. He probably forced Patrice to watch while he did it too. That’s exactly his M.O. I imagine he will keep Patrice around long enough to break her, and then he’ll toss her aside in favor of the younger, hotter woman.
Or, at least, that’s what he would do if he was free to do it.
But he’ll be behind bars if we have anything to say about it.
I enjoy the gloating look on his face, knowing it’ll be wiped off soon enough.
He thinks everything is lining up perfectly, but he knows nothing.
The evidence we provided gives him a legit reason to throw Atticus out of the elite, and he won’t have to worry about any lawsuit after today—when he believes he’ll hold the most important role within the order and the elite at large—so he feels justified in his good mood.
Drew and I share a surreptitious look, but neither of us is cocky because there is still a lot that could go wrong. Let’s just say we are quietly optimistic.
We enter the auditorium as a group, and men crowd around Father, slapping him on the back as we make our way down the steps toward the front, but it’s all for show. Father takes his place in the first row in front of the podium, while Drew exits left to join the other elite members on the far side of the space.
There are a little over five hundred elite members here today, and two hundred of those are voting members. Add family members to the mix and there is over one thousand people in this big auditorium. Enough for me to worry about all the ways this could go down, harming innocents in the process. A lot of the elite family members are forced into this way of life, like we have been, and there are plenty of people in this room who will enjoy seeing the order thrown into chaos and some of these sick bastards thrown into jail.
Charlie kisses me on the cheek. “I know I didn’t say anything yesterday,” he whispers, “but I do still care about you, and I won’t let you come to any harm.”
I lift a neat brow.
“I know the way your mind works, Abby, and I know what was in the works before I switched allegiances.” He holds my hands firmly in his. “Whatever you have planned, please be fucking careful.”
“You won’t stop us?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “I’ve made grave mistakes, Abby. Mistakes that have cost me my family and you, but I’m done making bad decisions and choosing the wrong side.” He looks over his shoulder at Father. He’s sitting beside the other candidates looking like the cat that got the cream. Charlie looks back at me. “I trusted the wrong people and allowed my mind to be swayed.” His features harden. “I hope you make him pay.”
“What was that all about?” Shandra whispers when I take my seat on the edge of a row with her to my right.
“I think Charlie might have finally come to his senses,” I say as a dark shadow looms over me.
“Move,” Alessandra snaps, tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder while planting her hands on her curvy hips.
“Only if you ask nicely.” I grin up at her.
“I will yank you up by the hair and enjoy every second of it,” she retorts.
I flash her an even wider grin. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Your daddy told me what a dutiful daughter you are.” I stand, leaning into her ear. “How you spread your legs and your ass for him and numerous other men.” Her nostrils flare and her fists clench at her sides. “I’m guessing he wouldn’t be pleased if you made a scene at such an important event, but feel free to test my theory.”
I step out, and she deliberately shoulder checks me as she pushes her way into the row. She’s poured into a bodycon dress that is better suited to dancing than a formal elite event but judging by the way Trent is panting in heat, I’d say he had a hand in what she wore today.
I fix the collar of my white silk shirt, adjusting the strand of pearls around my neck so they are perfectly positioned. My hair is in an elegant chignon, matching my classic straight black skirt, and white silk blouse combo. I’m wearing heels but not skyscrapers because I don’t want to risk taking a tumble when I make my way up to the stage.
Adrenaline flows through my veins and a flurry of butterflies are idling in my chest as I sit back down, hoping the formalities kick off soon.
When everyone is seated, the current president calls for quiet and the ceremony begins. A screen lowers behind him, and a bullshit presentation lauding the legacy and achievements of the elite plays for ten minutes, while I fight boredom. When that ends, the president jumps right into his speech.
The man is clearly in ill health, leaning heavily on a walking stick and wiping his mouth with his handkerchief every time he coughs. Every second of his speech feels like hours, and a trickle of sweat rolls down the gap between my breasts. From my position, I can see Drew, Rick, and Kai sitting in the second row on the left. We tested our earpieces out first thing, and I know the guys are listening from outside. Xavier has successfully infiltrated the IT system, and he’s primed and ready to get this show on the road.
“Now to the business of the day,” the president says, spitting into the mic as he breaks out in another coughing fit. “The election of a new president to reside over the council and oversee the running of the elite nationwide. All candidates, please rise.”
The five men stand in the front row as a round of applause breaks out around the room.
When the clapping has stopped, the president continues explaining the process. “Each candidate’s name will be called out individually, and I will invite a show of support. Voting members will raise their left hand while simultaneously pressing the button on the digital keypad to register their vote.”
Drew previously explained how all members over the age of eighteen have automatic voting privileges. The raising of the hands is a nod to the old traditions, while the little digital pads on the arm of each member’s seat allows for fast computation of votes.
“When all the nominations have been called, and the votes tallied, the candidate with the majority votes will be announced as our next president. All the results will be displayed on the screen,” he adds, waving his hand behind him. “A minimum of fifty votes is required to be eligible. In the event no candidate receives the minimum entitlement, the voting process will be halted while the council discusses how to proceed.”
He waffles on for another few minutes before calling for absolute quiet.
And then it begins.
One by one, the candidates’ names are called, and I’m on the edge of my seat as I wait for the bastard’s name to be announced. The cage restraining the butterflies in my chest has broken apart, and those beautiful creatures are running amok inside me. I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my skirt, while Shandra grips my arm in a silent show of support.
Father’s name is called out last, and at this stage, no other candidate has received the minimal entitlement. Father is preening as he stands, probably believing he’s won more than his expected number of votes.
“Get ready,” Drew whispers through the earpiece. I wet my dry lips and fold my hands in my lap to stop fidgeting.
“Those in support of Michael Hearst for president, please raise your hands and register your votes now,” the president says, and an eerie lull sweeps over the room.
Not a single person raises their hand, and Father’s brow puckers as he looks around the room.
The president clears his throat. “All those in support of Michael Hearst for president, please vote now.”
No one moves a muscle, and panic flares in the bastard’s eyes. He sways a little on his feet, and I can detect the sheen of sweat on his brow on the projected image of him now displayed on the screen.
“It’s working,” Drew whispers.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouts, his voice projecting around the room, the slurring of his words evident to all.
A tall, distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair stands. I recognize him from his file photo. He’s a respected senior judge from the state of Michigan and a man who was personally appointed by the president of the United States. He holds an elevated position within the elite, and he is someone a lot of members look up to, according to Drew.
We handpicked him for this role, because someone of esteem needs to kick-start this into gear. If Drew or I attempted it, we would most likely be hauled out of the auditorium and thrown in the dungeon which I know exists in the basement area of this building.
Judge Gregory Penn looks like an upstanding citizen in his pressed gray suit with his broad shoulders held high and a haughty expression on his face. He prides himself on his family man image, and he has a large family of three sons and four daughters.
He’s also a perverted pedophile who loves raping young boys for his sick pleasure.
“Permission to approach the council and address all members,” he asks.
The president frowns, totally oblivious to what is happening. He looks to his council members, and they nod. “Permission granted,” he says before coughing into his handkerchief. He walks to the table on the stage where the other council members sit, dropping into the empty seat and mopping his brow.
The judge steps up to the podium, adjusting the microphone. He loudly clears his throat as a young man with a mass of shocking red hair steps onto the podium, looking agitated as he stands beside the judge, clutching a large white envelope.
Gregory Penn looks around the room before eyeballing my father who is clinging onto the side of his chair like he’s about to keel over. “In this envelope is a signed petition from the majority of Parkhurst members demanding the denouncement and removal of Michael Hearst from our noble institution.”
“That’s preposterous,” Father splutters, barely standing upright at this stage. The low dose of GHB I snuck into his juice will confuse him and slow him down so he can’t easily defend himself or escape.
“On what grounds are you making this request?” the president asks, slipping his glasses on as the young man with the red hair hands him the envelope with the petition.
“False representation, blackmail and extortion, murder of high-ranking elite members, and behavior unbecoming of an elite,” the judge says without batting an eyelash.
Hushed whispers whip through the crowd, and the president bangs his fist down on the table, instantly muting the room.
Alessandra pointedly looks at me, and there’s no disguising the look of sheer glee on her face. My finger twitches with the need to flip her the bird, but I shoot her a disinterested look instead, knowing that will piss her off more.
“You have no proof!” Father slurs, almost taking a tumble.
“We call Drew Hearst-Manning to the stage as our witness,” the judge says, and Drew stands. I rise, walking down the few steps toward the stage at the same time as my twin.
“Get back in your seat, Abigail,” Father hisses as I walk past him.
I can’t resist stopping in front of him. “You don’t look so hot, Father. Perhaps you should sit down.” I push his chest with one finger, and he collapses in the seat. I lean down over him, pouring every ounce of hate in my heart into my stare. “You should never underestimate women. Especially not the women in your life. I hope you get everything that is coming to you.”
“You tell him, babe,” Kai whispers in my ear. I smile broadly, and it’s all for him.
Drew is waiting at the side of the dais for me, and the judge frowns as he watches us both approach him, clearly perplexed and unhappy because I wasn’t part of the agreement.
But there is no way in hell I am sitting in the audience and watching Drew exact our revenge.
This retribution is mine, and it’s all the sweeter knowing I’m sticking two fingers to the elite and their sexist bullshit, as well as taking my bastard father down.
After today, every man in this room will learn a valuable lesson—that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Drew takes my hand as we step up onto the podium. The judge pins Drew with a sharp look when he nudges him to one side, allowing me in front of the mic. I bring it down to my level and wet my dry lips, willing my nerve to hold.
“You’ve got this, firecracker,” Kai whispers. “Give them hell.” Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Rick and Kai getting into position.
“Good morning. My name is Abigail Hearst-Manning. I am the daughter of Olivia Manning and Michael Hearst and sister to Drew. My father, and I use that reference in the very loosest terms, is a fraud and a manipulator, and he has spent years compiling evidence he has used to bribe key elite members into supporting his campaign for presidency.”
Rumblings of discontent echo around the room, and behind me I hear someone getting to their feet. “Not only that, he has falsified records pertaining to his childhood to present himself as an orphan and ward of the state when he is in fact the illegitimate son of a failed businessman and a prostitute.”
The crowd looks over my head at the images Xavier is projecting on to the screen.
“Every facet of the persona he has presented is fake. Even his engagement is a ruse, and he has no plans to marry Patrice. It’s one of the reasons why she’s been having an affair with Atticus Anderson behind my father’s back.”
Gasps ring out around the vast space, and I know Xavier has switched the feed to some stills from the footage we have of Patrice in bed with Kai’s father. Most of the elite look mildly amused, because there is no shame or shock at this kind of usual behavior. But most family members are disgusted, and it shows on their expressions. While I’m sure many of them are accustomed to what goes on at Parkhurst, it’s distasteful to have it so blatantly referred to.
Patrice jumps up, brushing past people in her haste to exit her row and get the hell out of here. I look to where Atticus is sitting, enjoying the panicked expression on his face. He has just realized how short-lived his elite return was.
“When my brother and I turn eighteen in two months, my father’s shares in Manning Motors will divert to us.” Drew hands an envelope to the president who is now standing directly behind me. “All board members have signed new contracts and statements of allegiance to us. Furthermore, they have publicly announced their separation from all actions and activities of Michael Hearst in a televised conference happening right now.”
I glance over my shoulder at the screen, watching as the chairman of the board addresses an assembled crowd of reporters at Manning Motors HQ, explaining they have fired Michael Hearst as CEO and replaced him with an interim CEO.
Down in the front row, Father is struggling to get to his feet. Sweat pumps out of his brow, and he’s staggering and swaying all over the place. The president comes up beside me, scowling as he looks at him. He takes control of the mic from me. “Guards, seize that man and bring him to me.”
“But that is not his only crime,” Drew says, taking control of the mic from the president.
Cries of outrage ring around the room as the footage from Christmas Day airs.
Now this is something the elite won’t appreciate.
While blackmail and murder are commonplace, taking out a high-ranking elite member without justification and in such a cold, clinical way, is frowned upon. Especially when the man committing murder of a founding father is an illegitimate bastard only in the organization by virtue of marriage.
I so wanted to warn Charlie about this, but it was too risky.
“This footage was taken last December,” Drew continues, “and it shows our father murdering Charles Barron, a high-ranking elite member and a descendant of a founding family from our hometown of Rydeville, in cold blood.”
“And previously,” I add, leaning in beside Drew as Kai and Rick edge closer to the stage. “He was instrumental in the murder of Emma Anderson, the wife of another founding father from Rydeville, although it was actually Atticus Anderson who killed his wife.”
