Chapter 2: The House of Cards
The silence that followed the click of the handcuffs was absolute. Preston stood in the center of the ballroom, his tuxedo—once the emblem of his status—now looking like nothing more than a costume. As the officers led him toward the exit, he tried to lock eyes with our father, Richard, but my father had turned his back, obsessively straightening a floral arrangement.
My mother, Carolyn, was clutching her pearls so hard her knuckles were white. She looked at me, not with concern for her granddaughter, but with a frantic, desperate fear. "Evelyn," she hissed, her voice trembling, "you can't let this go to the press. We can handle this privately. Think of the family reputation."
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I looked at her—at the woman who had spent thirty years teaching me that the Bennett name was more important than my own happiness. I looked at the bloodstained menu board still lying on the floor.
"The reputation is gone, Mother," I said, my voice steady for the first time in my life. "And for the first time, I don’t care."
