Godmother To His Son Then I Took His Kingdom Chapter 27
Three days after her removal from the board, Mrs. Whitmore came to Santa Fe.
She arrived without an appointment and sat alone in the reception area of the Reyes Foundation.
The front desk called to ask if I wanted them to contact security.
I looked at her stiff-backed figure on the monitor and was silent for a few seconds.
“Have a member of our legal team sit in on the meeting.”
When she entered the conference room, her eyes went first to the foundation’s name on the wall.
Reyes.
Not Whitmore. Not Graham.
“Are you satisfied now?” she asked, her voice brittle.
“With what?”
“The group doesn’t want me. The foundation has cut me out. People who once lined up to shake my hand won’t even return my calls.”
She slapped a newspaper down on the table.
The front page showed a photo of her being cornered by reporters at the gala.
“If you say just one thing publicly—that Graham made his will while of sound mind, and that the Whitmore family never treated you poorly—this can all end.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard her.
“The first part has already been confirmed by the probate court. The second is a lie you want me to tell for your benefit.”
“I’m only asking you to leave a dead man some dignity!”
“Graham paid for his choices before he died. And that isn’t why you’re here.”
I pushed the newspaper back toward her.
“You’re here because you want your board seat back.”
Her lips trembled.
“Mara, if it hadn’t been for the Whitmore family, your parents’ laundromat would have—”
“The Cabots paid my tuition. My parents left me what they had from selling their business. My work experience comes from every project I have ever completed.”
I cut her off, my voice cold and final.
“The only thing your family gave me was a surname. And for that name, I lost my child and nearly lost my life.”
Her face went pale.
“Graham was calling your name at the end.”
Something pricked in my chest, a faint needle-like pain.
It was sharp, and brief.
“That was his regret.”
I pressed the call button on the table.
“It was never my responsibility.”
A paralegal came in.
Mrs. Whitmore still didn’t move.
“Do you really not hate me at all?”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“I used to.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m busy.”
At last, she understood. I wasn’t trying to humiliate her.
She no longer mattered enough for hatred.
After the conference room door closed behind her, I remained standing, my palms damp with sweat.
Eli came down the hall. He didn’t ask what had been said. He just placed a cup of hot tea in my hands.
I said quietly, “I thought if I saw her again, I’d go right back to that rainy night on the porch.”
“Did you?”
“For a second, yes.”
“And then?”
I tightened my hands around the warm cup, feeling the heat seep into my skin.
“Then she left, and I was still standing here.”