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Chapter 347
Chapter 347:
“June,” the old woman said, not taking her eyes off the Beasleys. “Go down to the underground garage and wait for me. Mrs. Lynch will arrange the car. I have a few words I need to share with our uninvited guests p>
June gave a single, brief nod.
She swept her cold, apathetic gaze over Alycia’s pale face, ignoring the toxic hatred burning in the other woman’s eyes, then turned and walked toward the secondary elevator bank.
The moment Cole and June disappeared into their respective elevators, Old Mrs. Compton turned with absolute, terrifying elegance.
𝖶𝖾 𝗎𝗉𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝗈𝗇
She walked slowly back into the lavish VIP viewing room and sat down in the exact center of the massive custom leather sofa. She rested both hands on the silver handle of her cane, said nothing, and simply raised the cane a few inches, pointing the rubber tip at the empty chairs opposite her — a silent command for the Beasley family to enter.
Richard and Martha Beasley exchanged a look of pure, suffocating terror. They walked into the room with slow, trembling steps. Alycia followed closely behind them, her head bowed, looking exactly like a prisoner walking toward a firing squad.
Old Mrs. Compton did not offer them a seat.
She let the heavy silence stretch for a full minute. Then she opened her mouth, and her voice carried the thick, unmistakable drawl of the Upper East Side old money elite.
“Mr. Beasley,” the old woman began, her tone slow and dripping with venom. “I reviewed the preliminary financials for your failing construction firm last quarter. It is quite fascinating how you manage to hide a seven-million-dollar deficit in your materials budget by creating phantom sub-contractors in Delaware p>
Richard’s knees physically buckled. A cold sweat broke across his forehead. He opened his mouth, but his vocal cords were completely paralyzed. The reach of the Compton intelligence network was terrifying.
Old Mrs. Compton did not wait for his excuses. She shifted her icy blue eyes to Martha.
“And Mrs. Beasley,” she continued, her gaze raking slowly over Martha’s dress with surgical disgust. “That is a lovely piece of couture. Spring collection, three years ago, if I am not mistaken. It is a shame that no amount of expensive fabric can wash away the distinct, overwhelming stench of desperate nouveau riche ambition p>
Martha’s face flushed a dark, violent shade of purple. The blood pounded in her ears, but she did not dare breathe, let alone speak.
Finally, the matriarch’s gaze slid away from the parents. Her eyes dropped, locking directly onto Alycia’s flat stomach.
Old Mrs. Compton let out a short, razor-sharp scoff.
“Miss Beasley,” the old woman said, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. “The bloodline of the Compton family is not something you can manipulate with a few forged ultrasound printouts p>
Alycia’s head snapped up. Her heart slammed against her ribs. A flash of pure, unfiltered panic exploded in her eyes. She was certain the old woman had exposed her entirely.
Old Mrs. Compton leaned forward slightly, delivering the final, lethal blow.