Chapter 419
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Chapter 419:
“Dad!” Cory shrieked, his voice cracking. “Aspen is on the news! The police raided her holding cell! They caught her hitman! What are we going to do? They’re going to come for us next p>
Robert stood up so fast his chair tipped over backward. He crossed the room in two strides and slapped Cory across the face with all his strength.
The sharp crack echoed through the room. Cory dropped to the floor, clutching his bleeding lip, stunned into silence.
“She is a lunatic!” Robert roared, his face purple with rage, the veins bulging in his neck. “She tried to drag this entire family into a grave! Listen to me very carefully. As of this moment, I do not have a daughter p>
𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯
He turned his back on his son, walked to the oil painting on the wall, swung it open, and rapidly spun the dial on the hidden wall safe.
He pulled out a heavy canvas backpack and dumped into it the last five solid gold bars he possessed, followed by a thick stack of cash and a dark blue passport.
He walked back and threw the backpack directly at Cory’s chest.
“There is a private airstrip in New Jersey,” Robert said, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. “A chartered Cessna is waiting. It flies under the radar p>
Cory stared at the foreign passport in his trembling hands.
“Get on that plane,” Robert commanded. “Fly to South America. Do not ever come back to the United States. Do not ever use the name Schneider again. You are the last piece of this bloodline that isn’t in a cage. Go p>
Terrified by his father’s absolute ruthlessness, Cory scrambled to his feet, clutched the backpack to his chest, and sprinted out of the study, disappearing into the dark night like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Across town, on the Upper East Side.
Kieran Douglas walked through the grand double doors of his family’s ancestral mansion, moving like a ghost. His suit was wrinkled, his face stained with dried tears.
He pushed open the door to his bedroom, desperate to collapse into the dark.
The lights snapped on.
Kieran flinched, shielding his eyes.
His father, the patriarch of the Douglas family, sat in the corner armchair, leaning heavily on his silver-handled cane. His face was carved from stone, his eyes radiating pure disgust.
The patriarch picked up the evening newspaper from the side table and hurled it at Kieran.
The paper hit his chest and fluttered to the floor. The front page featured a high-definition photograph of Aspen Schneider being dragged out of Rikers Island in chains, her face twisted in a psychotic scream.
“Look at it,” his father spat. “Look at the psychotic trash you threw Jocelyn Wolfe away for. A conspirator to murder p>
Kieran stared down at Aspen’s twisted, screaming face. A sudden, violent wave of nausea rolled through him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, rushed into the adjoining marble bathroom, and vomited into the sink.
He gripped the edges of the cold marble vanity, knuckles white, physically sickened by his own past choices.
His father walked to the bathroom doorway, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor.